


fake it until you (don't) make it

by ironmittens



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Caregiver Steve Rogers, Caregiver!Bucky, Caregiver!Phil, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Infantilism, Little!Sam, Littles Are Known, Non-Sexual Age Play, Stuffies, alternate universe - classifications, alternate universe - littles are known, baseline!pepper, jarvis is Tired and just wants tony healthy is that too much to ask?, little Tony Stark, little verse, little!Natasha, someone get tony a hug asap, tony is stubborn and steve is just Worried okay, tony's immovable self-denial vs steve's unstoppable care and stubborn patience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 56,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27329431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironmittens/pseuds/ironmittens
Summary: Tony is one hundred percent confident that he can keep his secret. He's a master of disguise and no one suspects a thing. Now, if only he could get Steve to stop paying such close attention to him.
Relationships: Pepper Potts & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Avengers Team
Comments: 124
Kudos: 506
Collections: Marvel AgePlay Worth Reading





	1. the cap bear

**Author's Note:**

> so! i fell down a rabbit hole of littles are known fics and this happened. this is my first time writing for a littles are known verse so be gentle pls

It’s a busy week for Stark Industries — copious amounts of meetings with stone-faced executives regarding the impending release of the latest StarkPhone model, alongside his usual commitments to overseeing the R&D department. On top of that, two calls to assemble, and one of the dullest four-hour long S.H.I.E.L.D. meetings he’s ever had the displeasure of attending. 

Needless to say, sitting down on the plush communal floor couch with nothing to do almost feels like a damn _novelty_ , he feels jittery all over, like he might just shake apart if he isn’t given something to do within the next two minutes. 

Exhaustion weighs heavy on his shoulders, seeps down right to the very marrow of his bones, and he doesn’t notice the direction his gaze slants until he’s pulled abruptly away from his sluggish train of thought by a hand to his shoulder. It’s gentle, unbearably gentle, and a smile curls at the corner of his mouth as he looks up to meet a pair of concerned blue eyes. 

“There a reason you’re having a staring contest with Mr. Teddy Bear over there?”

Tony’s stomach lurches at that, and he shoots a surreptitious glance towards the fluffy purple teddy bear that’s propped up against a cushion, soulless black eyes boring into his own. And _listen_ — he’s well aware that it’s supposed to be cute and all, but given how close he’s veered recently to slipping, he almost feels taunted. If he could just get through this next video conference, then he’d be free for the day and he could indulge for an hour or so, stave off this inconvenient _need_ of his for another month. 

“Tony? You okay?”

He realizes with a grimace that his ‘glance’ had quickly devolved into a full-blown wistful stare. 

“I’m fine, cap. It’s been a long week, just need to rest up.” 

It _really_ says something about Tony Stark that Steve’s expression twists further into one of confusion. 

He huffs a laugh, stretching his arms out above his head. “Yeah, that’s right. I’ve decided to bend to the whims of my body and its need for sleep. I’ve heard it does wonders, I’m eager to try it out.” 

Steve straightens, eyes sparking with a small amount of humor. “Well, you definitely won’t see me complaining. Any more meetings for today?” 

“Just one at 7 pm _._ Can you believe how sadistic that is, Steve? A meeting at _7 pm_.“ 

“Terrible,” Steve agrees, with a solemn shake of his head. “Should we have an earlier team dinner, then?”

Tony waves him off, reaching between the cushions of the couch and pulling out a bag of trail mix. “I’m set.” 

Disbelief flickers across Steve’s face for the briefest of moments, but it’s almost instantly replaced with fond amusement. “Do I wanna know how many snack bags you hide around the place?”

“Definitely not.” 

He eyes the trail mix for a moment, shoulders lowering a little with resignation. “At least you’re eating.” 

It’s only when Steve collects his sketchbook and heads towards the elevator that Tony allows his gaze to gravitate back towards the teddy bear. It looks ridiculously soft, and he _knows_ it’s ridiculously soft from having handled it before, and just thinking about it makes an inexplicable part of him ache with an almost desperate vengeance. It’s enough to startle him, the pure longing that suddenly clouds his every thought, simmers at the back of his brain like it might bubble over at any moment.

The thing is, Tony likes having Nat’s and Sam’s toys strewn about the place, it fills this achingly lonely part of him right to the brim with warmth, reminds him constantly that he has people around now that he cares about more than he ever thought possible, even if he’d rather hand over his company to Hammer Industries than admit to that aloud. It’s just...sometimes, in his weaker moments, when his brain isn’t being tugged in about ten different directions at once, he can’t help but feel a certain emptiness.

Tony tries to draw his attention away, focuses on the holograms he’s manipulating, calculates the exact curvature of the dry-roasted almond he pulls from his trail mix bag, but it’s only when he hears an awkwardly cleared throat that Tony realizes that his gaze has somehow settled on that godforsaken teddy bear again. 

He beats back the urge to flinch with a stick, watching as a sheepish-looking Steve re-enters the room and picks a piece of paper up from the couch. 

“Forgot to take the actual thing I was working on,” he explains, running a hand across the back of his neck. 

Tony pastes on what he hopes is a sharp smile. “Getting forgetful in your old age. Happens to the best of us.” 

Steve huffs, eyes flicking between Tony and the teddy bear. “Sure you’re okay?”

“Steve, I hate to say it buddy, but your mother-henning tendencies are getting the better of you. I’m fine. Go do your drawing.” 

His smile seems a little tight around the edges, but he obliges with a quick nod, and Tony is once again left alone. He lets out a disgruntled sigh, reaching over and propping the teddy up so that it faces the couch rather than him. At the very least he doesn’t have to be subjected to those all-seeing eyes. 

It takes a little conscious effort, but he manages to redirect his focus towards the holoscreen displaying his email inbox, with only two concerned remarks from JARVIS about his health over the span of about an hour, which is pretty miraculous all things considered. 

He sits through his 7 pm meeting, munching on trail mix and decidedly _not_ thinking about various stuffed toys and their cuddle quality. 

~

There’s a panel in Tony’s bedroom that’s impossible to notice if you’re not actively searching for it, blending in seamlessly with the navy blue of his walls. It’s almost excessive, considering that the only thing stored behind it is a plain blue pacifier, but Tony is nothing if not prepared at all times, especially when it comes to an aspect of his life only he and JARVIS have ever been privy to. 

He’d like to think that he has acting big down to a T by now, what with the way it’s practically been conditioned into him, a part of him almost as much as schmoozing bigwigs and presenting a polished front to the press is. Occasionally, he’ll slip up though, suck on the tip of a pen while he’s thinking, or tense up when there are multiple caregivers in the room with him at once. 

The point is that if his floor is swept, no one will ever find evidence that Tony Stark is a little. 

Of course, a part of him is almost constantly grappling with the guilt that comes from not telling Rhodey and Pepper — arguably the two people who deserve to know the most — about his classification, but he just _knows_ that they’ll want him to drop more, take it easier, and he just...can’t deal with that. He doesn’t want to put them in a position of knowing this about Tony, while also knowing that Tony maybe, _possibly_ , isn’t taking care of himself the way he should be, at least in a way that aligns with what most people deem appropriate (read: totally excessive), while _also_ knowing that Tony is unlikely to ever tell anyone else. It doesn’t seem fair to make them feel responsible for him. 

JARVIS locks down his floor the moment Tony steps out of the elevator. A distinct feeling of shame worms its way to the surface as he retreats to his bedroom, glances about for a moment, before double-checking that the windows have definitely been tinted and that no override codes exist for the particular protocol that JARVIS has enacted. 

He can feel a flush blooming high up on his cheeks as he steps toward the panel, already hanging ajar thanks to JARVIS. Despite every single measure in place, Tony can never quite shake off the dread that forms a pit in his stomach, the tingling feeling that spreads across the back of his neck, that someone will catch him. He looks out at the dazzling Manhattan skyline, and all he can think is that someone, somehow, will just _know_ what he’s up to at that moment. 

“You’re quite safe, sir, I assure you. I will redirect any and everyone that attempts to come up to your floor within the next few hours.” 

Tony lets out a shuddering breath as he pads over to his closet, pulling out the softest pair of pajama pants he owns — covered all over with Captain America’s shield, funnily enough — and a well-worn shirt. JARVIS’ voice takes on a certain quality during times like these, softening considerably, and it goes a long way towards relaxing him enough to drop, at least partly, into his headspace. 

He slips on both the pants and shirt, as well as a pair of fuzzy black socks, which is a _very_ big choice, thank you very much, he’s definitely seen the other avengers wearing fuzzy socks at one point or another. 

Finally, Tony turns towards the pacifier. Just the sight of it has the edges of his consciousness blurring a little, his racing thoughts slowing right down, not taking in every factor within his environment for once. The initial drop still scares him a little, because he’s always been a bit of a control freak and he can’t think of a bigger loss of control, but JARVIS pipes up again, and the tension bleeds away from his shoulders like magic.

“You’re alright, sir. You’re safe. I’ll be supervising you the entire time, you don’t have to worry.” 

It really says a lot about him that the comfort of an incorporeal AI has an almost instant calming effect. He takes the pacifier and approaches his bed, slipping under the covers and bundling up his duvet so that he can hug it tightly to his chest. Once the pacifier is in his mouth, he slips to his usual state of half-little-space. He can’t remember the last time he’s fully dropped, because it just seems unnecessary, and Tony honestly isn’t sure if he’s capable of getting over this mental block he has alone, preventing him from giving up that much control. 

JARVIS dims the lights, and plays a soft lullaby while he reads from a book that Tony can’t see, but appreciates all the same. He feels small, and warm, and _safe_ , and that’s all that matters. 

~

“Pepper’s forcing me to take the weekend off, J, you know what that means?” 

If an AI could sigh, Tony gets the feeling that JARVIS absolutely would. 

“Would it be too much to hope that you’ll spend some more time in your little headspace?” 

He aims a sharp grin at the nearby camera, sweeping by various work stations and bringing up the projects that occupy his time between Stark Industries and Avengers business.

“Gonna be that sort of morning, huh? Alright then, fire away, J, what are they recommending for littles these days? Can’t say I’ve been keeping up with the literature.” 

It’s a blatant lie, but JARVIS must be feeling generous, because he doesn’t call him out on it.

“As I’ve stated on numerous occasions, sir, they’re currently recommending that littles drop two times a week as an absolute minimum, for about twelve hours or more.” 

Tony snorts. “Well isn’t that nice, back in my day they were recommending two whole days as a minimum. But, that’s still one day a week that Ican’t afford, and I can’t reconcile not doing anything but playing with stuffies for 24 hours. Exploded view of this panel right here, J.” 

“Might I remind you, sir, that Mr. Wilson and Agent Romanoff spend an average of 38 hours in their little headspace per week, and you don’t apply that criticism to them.” 

“Well, that’s because—that’s obviously because—I mean, that’s—“ 

Tony hesitates, staring ahead at the panel that needs replacing. Something twists in his gut, and he almost feels sick with the implication that he would judge either Nat or Sam for spending much needed time in their little headspace. It’s just—he doesn’t _deserve_ to have that sort of comfort is all, not when there’s always something to be doing, always a way to keep the Avengers safer, because he _needs_ that, he needs—needs to be doing something right, to be protecting people where he’d failed countless times before. 

“They’re not me,” he finishes lamely, approaching his stealth armor with a critical eye and prying the problem panel away. Retroreflective panels are great and all, but they seem to require more upkeep. 

“If I may, sir — spending an appropriate amount of time in little headspace promotes various aspects of health and wellbeing, which no one person has to _earn_ in order to deserve.” 

Before Tony can even think of a response to fire back with, because he has a bit of a thing about having the last word, JARVIS goes on to inform him that Steve is outside the workshop. 

He hesitates for a moment, before settling down in a chair with the panel on his lap and nodding. “Let him in, J. No headspace talk.”

“Of course, sir. Privacy protocols are always in place.” 

The doors open, and Steve enters, sporting an almost abashed smile. He’s clearly just returned from a run, if the red glow that colors his cheeks is anything to go by. Tony notices the bag slung over his shoulder almost immediately, but decides against commenting on it. 

“Hey, Tony.” 

Tony arches an eyebrow as he sets the panel on a worktable, reaching over for a screwdriver. 

“Cap. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Steve leans up against the worktable, pale face and bright blue eyes illuminated by the light emanating from JARVIS’ scan of the stealth armor. 

“Just checking in,” he says, smile turning somewhat sheepish. “Pepper told me you nearly collapsed at a meeting yesterday.” 

Tony huffs. “Did she now? Well, I appreciate the check-in, but I’m fine. Just got a bit dehydrated.” 

It was certainly not because littles need more rest than the general population. That would be entirely ridiculous. Shut up JARVIS. 

Steve gives him a scrutinizing once-over, before nodding slowly. “Alright, well...do you have anything going on tomorrow?” 

Tony pretends to think about it for a moment, before shaking his head. “Not much going on this weekend as a whole. Why?” 

“I was just—thinking we could spend some time together as a team. A movie night or a game night, or, or something else maybe.” 

He narrows his eyes skeptically, because it’s a well-known fact that Steve isn’t particularly great at lying, and he seems to be fumbling an awful lot. 

“Okay, what’s the deal?” 

“Nothing,” he insists quickly, and his arm twitches, almost like he wants to rub a hand along the back of his neck. “Uh—Bruce and I visited an art museum yesterday, and on our way back we met up with Clint, who apparently saw this—this Captain America bear, he said it looked funny, Sam and Nat already have multiple Cap Bears and he gave it to me, so now I guess I’m giving it to you, if you want it?” 

Tony doesn’t realize how much he’s tensed up until he feels a pressure at his bottom lip, and realizes with a jolt that it’s the handle of his screwdriver. His heart leaps, and he places it back on the worktable as though he’s been burned. 

“You’re giving me a Cap Bear.” 

“If you want it.” 

“Contrary to popular belief, I _am_ actually a grown adult.” 

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but Tony’s lips quirk up into a teasing smile, and he says “I’m kidding, show it to me, Cap.” 

A distinct look of relief crosses Steve’s face as he pulls the bear from his bag, and a small part of Tony almost wants to squee at the sight. It looks so damn _soft_ , and he’s always had a particular weakness for soft stuffies, soft blankets, soft _anything_. He really has no idea what Clint is talking about, because this bear is _stupidly_ adorably with its winged cowl and its big brown ears and its small plush shield. He doesn’t understand what part of it looks funny. 

A longing so intense Tony would’ve stumbled under it had he been standing hits him like a freight train, and he reaches out on impulse. 

Steve’s smile is unbearably fond as he hands it over, and Tony decides that he’ll analyze the way his expression relaxes with an almost tangible sense of calm at a _later_ point, because right now he has a _soft bear,_ with a _cute little shield_ , that looks _very huggable_ , and—

Oh god. _What is he even thinking?_ This was a horrible idea. 

Tony pries his gaze away through sheer force of will, standing up from his chair and placing the bear down on his worktable. He offers Steve a rehearsed smile as he enlarges a random portion of the scan. 

“Always thought I needed a lab partner. And this one can’t talk, isn’t _that_ convenient,” he says, flicking his gaze toward a nearby camera. 

“As always, a pleasure to be of assistance, sir, I’m very glad to know that I’m appreciated,” JARVIS intones, and Tony can’t help the way his expression melts into one of genuine amusement. 

“Can you believe I have to put up with this sass?” he asks Steve, without so much as a glance in his direction, because he’s suddenly all too aware that he’s alone in his own space with a caregiver, and the thought has two parts of his brain at war with one another, torn down the middle between falling back on his usual masks, covering up, or letting his thumb slip into his mouth, offering himself up to be comforted somehow. 

The thought is so pathetic that Tony scoffs at it, and Steve’s smile tightens again in that same way it had just a few days prior. 

“Tony...” 

And well, _that_ tone is certainly new — soft, warm, coaxing, never directed at him, because Tony Stark isn’t a little, and Tony Stark doesn’t need comfort like that, doesn’t deserve it, shouldn’t even be entertaining the _idea_ of it. 

“Cap,” he mimics, injecting as much faux-amusement into the syllable as possible, “is there a reason we’re using this tone?” 

Steve takes a small step forward, and Tony can’t help but meet his gaze. His blue eyes are practically brimming with concern, thinly-veiled pity, and Tony _hates_ it, he hates it so much that he turns away towards his stealth armor and pretends to examine it.

“You’re doing that...thing.” 

“What thing?” Tony hums.

“That deflecting thing.”

“Sorry, Cap, deflecting is pretty much written into my DNA. Totally inescapable. No uninstall button.” 

Tony falters slightly when Steve doesn’t react outwardly apart from arching an eyebrow. He clears his throat. “Alright, look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m a very busy man, time is money, I have shit to do, et cetera, et cetera.” 

The thing is, Steve is always very...upfront...about what’s on his mind, so the way he’s biting his tongue, clearly choosing his words carefully, it scares Tony more than he’s willing to admit. He’s rattled, because he likes to know what’s happening in advance, what to expect, and when he _doesn’t_ he has no idea how to prepare, or how to act. If Steve won’t just spit it out, then...it’s either something he doesn’t _want_ to spit out, or something he thinks he _shouldn’t_. 

“Okay, I’ll go,” he says, and Tony can’t help but look over in surprise. 

“I—good. Great. Okay. Thanks for the Cap Bear, by the way. He’s already shaping up to be a pretty good lab partner. Sitting still and looking pretty and all that. What kind of adult are you really if you don’t have at least one bear, right?” 

He’s babbling. He’s babbling and he knows he’s babbling, but he can’t _stop_ babbling. 

“Right,” Steve agrees, and his smile seems almost sad. “See you later, Tony.” 

The moment the workshop doors close, Tony collapses into his chair and very pointedly does _not_ hug the Cap Bear to his chest, even though it seems every cell in his body wants to. 

“JARVIS,” he says, “tell me he doesn’t know.” 

JARVIS hesitates, which is definitely unusual. 

“Captain Rogers has not outwardly expressed any suspicions within the tower.” 

“Within the tower?” he asks warily. 

“A few days ago Captain Rogers scheduled a non-avengers related appointment with Agent Coulson. I do not know what they discussed.” 

“Fuck me,” Tony mutters, burying his face in his hands. He feels almost as though someone has dumped an ice bucket over his head, with the cold that spreads through him, unbidden, tightening up his chest and his throat. 

He thinks of that brief moment where Steve’s voice had dipped to that low octave, that soothing cadence, and a shiver runs through him. He wants to curl up inside that tone and lose himself within it entirely, wants to hear that voice directed at him for the rest of his life, wants to hug that stupid Cap Bear to his chest and have someone, _anyone_ , speak to him that amount of care, wants to feel safe, like he won’t be exposed and flayed out for the world to see and pick apart at any moment. 

He just _wants_ , so desperately, when he knows he shouldn’t. 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. His cravings aren’t usually this pronounced so soon after a monthly ‘drop,’ and he blames Steve and his out-of-control caregiver instincts entirely. He knows that Steve doesn’t have a little, and he tends to go slightly overboard with the mother-henning sometimes, but Tony really, really wishes he wouldn’t, because the thought of a caregiver _knowing_ that he’s a little has every single one of his carefully laid plans unraveling like loose threads, has that inexplicable longing he can barely keep in check on a good day going absolutely haywire. 

“Update me, J, if Steve so much as _mentions_ my name and word ‘little’ in the same sentence, I wanna know about it.” 

“Of course, sir. And if I may — I very much believe that if Captain Rogers suspects you’re a little, he’ll have nothing but good intentions.”

“Good intentions,” Tony says to himself, verging slightly on hysterical, “if those ‘ _good intentions_ ’ result in me having to drop more than once a month, I‘m moving to fucking, Seattle, or something, starting a new Avengers there.” 

He doesn’t actually hear JARVIS sigh, but he suspects that the pregnant pause that follows speaks loud enough. 

~ 

Tony swears that his initial intent is solely to obtain coffee from the communal floor to fuel his lab-bender, but then he sees Nat and Sam on the couch watching cartoons, and he has a _weakness_ for those kids, okay? Sue him. Seriously. 

It’s Sunday morning and golden rays of sunshine spill over into the main living space, which has Tony taking a moment or two to adjust, because _light_. 

“Uncle Tony!” is about all the warning he gets before a very energetic little spy launches herself at him, and he grunts only slightly with the effort of hoisting her up into his arms.

“Hey there, kiddo,” he grins, “up to anything exciting?” 

That earns him a pout. “We _were_...Uncle Clint was gonna show Sam and I how to get up into the vents, but Daddy and Uncle Steve said we’re too little and we might get hurt.”

Tony feigns a gasp. “ _Too little?_ No way. You two are some of the biggest kids I know.” 

“Which is exactly why you’re only allowed to babysit once in a blue moon,” Coulson pipes up from the table, and Tony laughs when that catches Sam’s attention too, who joins in on the pouting fest. 

“Uncle Tony’s a good babysitter,” he insists. 

“Only because he’s a pushover.” 

Tony shoots him a deeply offended look. “Hey, _I_ can’t help that I’m the cool uncle. I _am_ the cool uncle, right guys?” he asks, as he settles down on the couch beside Sam. 

“Yes!” Sam says immediately, while Nat pretends to think about it. 

“ _Well_...” 

Tony gasps at that, reaching up to scribble a few tickles over her side, which, of course, has her squirming right out of his lap in a fit of giggles.

“Okay, okay! You’re the cool uncle.” 

“There we go,” says Tony, sending a smug glance towards Coulson. “How about we do something more interesting than watching cartoons, huh?” 

Sam lowers his Black Widow sippy cup at that, eyebrows furrowing. “Play toys?” 

“I don’t know, does little miss wanna play toys?” 

“Yes!” Nat says, “I need to show you my new spy upgrades. Uncle Clint helped me.” 

“Uncle Clint helped you, huh?” he says, lips quirking up slightly, “well that I _gotta_ see. Let’s go to the playroom, how about that?” 

What follows is a surprisingly detailed and plot-heavy enactment of a story that Sam and Nat had come up with together, involving spies and action and donuts, and a decent amount of double-crossing. 

“He did _what?_ ” Tony gasps, watching as Nat walks an orange dinosaur named Mr.Fuzzle across the floor. 

Sam’s smile crinkles his eyes, and it’s _far_ too cute for Tony’s poor battered heart. 

“He took all of the donuts.”

“I thought he was cool,” Tony says, bringing a hand up to his chest, “a stand-up guy.” 

“No, he just wants the donuts,” Nat explains, and Tony gives a solemn nod. 

“Sometimes all people want is donuts.” 

Sam seems to think that Tony is genuinely upset about this development, because his smile flickers and he moves forward, patting Tony’s knee. 

“It’s okay, Uncle Tony. Natalia the spy got a photo, so everyone will know.” 

“Oh thank god,” he says, trying hard not to smile at the sudden burst of fond warmth that floods his chest, “it’s a good thing Clint had her decked out in all those spy gadgets, huh?”

He’s contemplating the possible creation of a tiny functional camera for Nat’s spy doll when the door opens, revealing a smiling Steve. 

“Hey guys. Your daddies are calling you in for lunch.” 

“ _Lunch?_ ” Tony asks incredulously. “JARVIS, what’s the time?” 

“It is currently 12:42pm, sir.” 

“Well fu—uh, I mean, well, isn’t that a surprise? Alright kids, lunch and then Uncle Tony’s got some work to do.” 

“Aw,” Nat pouts, “but I wanna keep playing.” 

“I know you do, sweetheart, but lunch is important, gives you the energy to keep playing.” 

Nat still doesn’t look very convinced, so Tony adds, “plus, I promise I’ll come down and play before dinner if you two pack up your toys and go have lunch now.” 

Sam and Nat exchange a look, then they’re both racing around to put their toys away, practically tripping over themselves to get through the door and past Steve.

“Careful!” Steve calls after them, shaking his head in exasperated amusement. 

Tony can’t help but feel a little guilty — he knows that work keeps him pretty busy, and he can’t spend nearly as much time with Sam and Nat while they’re in their little headspace as he wants. Even when he _does_ have a few hours to spare, his focus is still being drawn in various directions, worn thin across numerous R&D projects and potential gear upgrades. They linger stubbornly at the back of his mind, a constant reminder that he could be working. 

“Well, that play session was very illuminating,” says Tony, as he stands up and dusts himself off, “I learned that Mr.Fuzzle over there is a donut-stealing traitor. Who knew?” 

Steve gasps. “Not Mr.Fuzzle.” 

“I know! Biggest plot twist of my life. Never saw it coming for even a second.” 

They head towards the kitchen together, chatting amiably about Mr.Fuzzle’s riveting story arc. Tony manages to forcibly push down all of his pathetic longing until they’ve had lunch, and he’s heading down to the workshop with a mug of coffee. _Black_ , because his little side is fond of sweet things, and he definitely does not want to indulge it any more than strictly necessary. Not when it’s such a pain in his ass. 

“Alright, J, load up those simulations we were running this morning.”

By the time 5 pm rolls around, oranges and reds streak the Manhattan skyline, and Tony gets up from his chair to stretch his arms out above his head. His haywire instincts have finally started to settle down, and he feels secure in the knowledge that, given his secret is safe, he can comfortably continue to play the role of a baseline, even at the annual Maria Stark Foundation Gala that’s scheduled in two days. All he has to do is convince Steve to keep his watchful, supersoldier eyes away from him.

“How are the kids doing, JARVIS?” 

“Still taking their afternoon nap,” he says, “they’re showing signs of waking up soon, however.” 

“Alright, I’m just gonna mess around with some suit ideas then.” 

“Actually, sir — I believe Captain Rogers and Agent Coulson are on their way down to see you. Should I let them in?” 

Tony freezes, panic clawing at his throat as he directs his gaze toward the workshop doors. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding, stomach twisting, “okay, that could be about anything, right?” 

JARVIS hesitates, which tells Tony everything he needs to know.

“I’m not quite sure what their intentions are. Shall I redirect them to a different floor?” 

Tony swallows thickly, before shaking his head, feeling awfully as though his brain has been replaced with a wad of cotton. 

“No, it’s fine, open the doors in say, one minute? I need a second.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

He feels goosebumps raising along his skin and tension coiling through every muscle in his body, but he tries to shake out his limbs anyway, rolling his shoulders back and taking in a few deep breaths. 

_Okay. Okay, he can do this. They have no evidence, the panel in his room is secured, and he can absolutely act big around two caregivers. He’s been doing it his entire life._

He gives a resolute nod, busying himself with the holographic list of suit ideas in front of him. The doors open with a mechanical hum, and he spares the pair a casual glance. 

“Gentlemen!” he says, rounding the worktable, “this is a surprise.”

Steve won’t quite meet his eye, which only makes Tony feel more on edge, a rubber-band ready to snap at any moment. 

“I must admit that I’m feeling a little ambushed here, usually S.H.I.E.L.D. schedules appointments for this sort of thing,” he continues. 

Coulson looks as calm and collected as ever, which really should aggravate him, but it _doesn’t_. 

“This isn’t Avengers business,” says Coulson, which has Tony’s heart racing in an instant. 

“So a personal matter then, huh? I’m not actually doling out dating advice anymore, not since Pepper, but I’m sure someone else on the team can help you out.” 

He offers them a smirk as he draws a line through one particular idea, which seems bulky and _really_ not worth the effort. 

Steve and Coulson exchange a brief glance. Steve, surprisingly enough, is the one that speaks up. 

“This isn’t an ambush, Tony. I’ve just...been noticing a few things recently, and I thought it’d be best to bring it up with you.” 

Tony barely smothers a grimace. “Okay, then. Shoot.” 

Coulson, of course, gets right down to business.

“You were tested for your classification on the first of June, 1988, a few days after your eighteenth birthday, is that correct?” 

“Sounds about right.” 

“And your father was the only other person present for the test?” 

Tony smiles, somewhat sardonically. “Yup. Dear old dad. As long as I wasn’t a little, he was happy.” 

“That’s actually what I wanted to discuss,” says Coulson, “there’s been some suspicion that your father paid the evaluator off to conceal your classification.” 

He tries very hard to remain relaxed, even when every muscle in his body wants to tense up. “And who might those suspicions—no, _accusations_ —be coming from?” he asks, directing a pointed look towards Steve. 

Steve glances away, but only for a brief second before he meets Tony’s gaze again, shoulders even, not backing down. Because of course he isn’t. 

“The source isn’t what matters, what matters is that if you’ve been misclassified, it’s very important that S.H.I.E.L.D. knows about it.” 

Tony huffs what he hopes is an amused laugh, swiping the holoscreen away. “Howard wouldn’t exactly win any father of the year awards, but he wouldn’t pay someone off to misclassify me. I appreciate the concern, gentlemen, but I’m a baseline, so I don’t need it. Anything else while you’re here? A drink, maybe? Got some nice picks from a distillery in—“ 

“Tony,” Steve says, and there’s that goddamn _voice_ again. 

He falters, gaze gravitating towards Steve, lips parting ever so slightly. There’s just something about that tone that makes him feel very, very little, which is _bad_ , but he’s helpless against the way his brain fogs over for a moment. 

“You don’t have to protect Howard.” 

_That_ snaps him out of his daze real quick.

“You really think I wanna _protect_ the guy? He’s dead, Steve. I feel nothing towards him now but complete and utter indifference.” 

It’s a lie, a very blatant lie at that, but it’s a lie that slides off his tongue easily after having repeated it for decades. 

Coulson slides over a file, stamped with the word ‘CONFIDENTIAL.’ “Howard Stark has a more-than-brief history of paying off higher-ups to uphold Stark Industries’ image, a history very-well documented by S.H.I.E.L.D. We’re not leveling accusations here, Tony, but surely you must be aware that there are different protocols in place for different classifications.” 

“I am very well aware,” says Tony, “and you can rest easy knowing that they don’t apply to me.” 

“All we’re asking is that you’re re-tested, so S.H.I.E.L.D. has the most accurate information on file—“

“Do you make a habit of re-testing S.H.I.E.L.D. agents on the grounds of a little suspicion? A hunch? Genuinely curious. Doesn’t seem like the best business model.” 

Coulson lets out a sigh, continuing as though he hadn’t spoken. “If you don’t agree to a re-test, it could potentially affect your place on the Avengers. I’m sorry, Tony, but that’s how it has to be.” 

His heart rate is skyrocketing, and he feels jittery all over with nerves, and he’s suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he’s alone with two caregivers. The urge to grab the Cap Bear that’s sitting on the couch and slip his thumb into his mouth is almost staggering, but he beats it back down and lets out a great big sigh.

“And if I move to Seattle and cut all ties with S.H.I.E.L.D.?” 

Steve looks positively wounded at that, while Coulson just looks faintly amused. 

“I don’t think you want to do that, Tony.” 

Tony can’t quite fight back a nervous swallow. “Alright then,” he says, clapping his hands together and snatching up a box from a nearby workbench, “I’ll do your re-test. Forward the details to JARVIS, I have a promise to a certain two kids that I need to fulfill.” 

He heads over towards the workshop doors, and the moment he steps outside, his shoulders tense up all over again. He moves forward a few paces, well out of supersoldier-earshot. 

“JARVIS, what’s the current literature on faking a classification test? Doable, or not?” 

“I’d advise that you didn’t, Sir,” he hedges, and Tony shoots a furtive glance toward Coulson to make sure _his_ discussion with JARVIS is already underway. 

“Is that what I asked?” 

“It’s _potentially_ doable, sir, but the ramifications would far out-weigh any perceived benefits. It’s also highly illegal.” 

“Yeah, well, like father like son, right? Howard didn’t raise a law-abiding citizen. Well, he tried to, maybe, but he was never exactly the best role model. Also scratch that ‘raise’ part, that’s a little too generous.” 

The elevator doors are just about closed when Steve exits the workshop, looking a little frazzled. 

“Wait, Tony, can you just—hear me out?”

He turns the offer over in his head, before heaving a sigh. “J, open the doors.”

Steve hurries forward to join him in the elevator. “Thank you. I’m sorry, if you feel like maybe I went behind your back, but I just want you to be accommodated for, because you’re an invaluable member of the team and you’re my friend, and I—I know it’s unhealthy to suppress headspace, I just didn’t want you to—“

“Rogers, if you’re gonna give me a health spiel, can it. Have your suspicions. Drag S.H.I.E.L.D. into it. Whatever. But I promise you, I’m just a boring old baseline.”

Steve opens his mouth, before promptly closing it again, examining him with this curiously intent glint in his eye, like he wasn’t quite expecting Tony to say that. He hesitates, before asking, “is there any chance you could promise me you won’t try anything with that test?” 

Tony’s eyes narrow, and he shoots a suspicious glance towards the camera in the elevator. “I won’t have to.” 

Steve visibly deflates, shoulders sagging. 

“Tony...”

“ _Fucking_ —can you _not_ use that voice on me? I’m not a kid.” 

It’s only then that Tony realizes they haven’t been moving, quite possibly for the past minute or so. As if on cue, the elevator doors open up to the communal floor, but Steve lingers, looking somewhat like a kicked puppy. 

“Tony. It’s okay. You know that, right?” 

Tony means to snap back that _he’s not a damn little_ , he really does, but his vision blurs with a sudden onslaught of tears, and a hot feeling of shame descends down over him. 

Steve makes a sympathetic noise, and he places a hand on Tony’s arm, rubbing gently up and down. It’s a comforting gesture that he _really_ doesn’t deserve, and Tony jerks away from it, taking an abrupt step backward. 

_Well. If he didn’t expose himself before, he certainly has now._

“It’s not. Go mother-hen someone else, Rogers, I have kids to play with.” 

He wipes furiously at his tears with the sleeve of his shirt as he enters the communal floor, thoroughly _done_ with those proceedings. He can’t remember the last time he’s cried outside of the comfort of his bedroom, and now here he is, leaving blotchy patches of dark grey on his nice AC/DC shirt. 

Some of the tension drains out of him when he rounds the corner and finds Nat and Sam sprawled out across the living room floor, coloring books laid out in front of them. Bucky is pecking away at a StarkPad with one pointer finger, which has Tony stifling a snort behind his hand. 

The sound must draw attention to him regardless, because Sam looks up. “Uncle Tony!” 

Nat immediately drops her crayon. “Finally!” 

“Yeah, sorry I’m a little late, kiddos, but I’m here to save you from Bucky now,” he says, grinning. 

Bucky levels him with a glare, but the corners of his mouth are twitching, so Tony doesn’t think he minds all too much. He seems to have embraced his status as an overprotective mother-hen. 

“What’s in the box, Uncle Tony?” Nat asks, eyeing him curiously, and it takes Tony a second or two to remember that, oh yeah, he’s sort of carrying a great big fuck-off box with him. Well, not _that_ big, but certainly noticeable.

“What box?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows in faux-confusion as he hides it behind his back, which pulls a giggle from Nat. 

“That one!” she says, pointing, and Tony brings it out in front of him again, lips tugging up into a smile.

“Oh, you mean _this_ one? Well, why don’t you two come with me to the playroom and find out?” 

Sam takes the hand that Tony isn’t using to carry the box, while Nat bounces ahead. She’s always curious about secrets — if she doesn’t know something, then chances are, she’ll find out one way or another.

“Okay,” he announces, once they enter the room. “Prepare yourselves. Are you prepared?” 

They both nod eagerly. 

“Are you sure?” Tony asks, shooting Bucky a playful smile, because of _course_ he’s hovering in the doorway. 

“Yes!” 

“Okay. You’ve both heard of Iron Man, right?” 

Nat nods with a surprising amount of seriousness. “He’s my favorite superhero.”

“ _He’s—_ oh man, don’t let Uncle Steve hear that,” he says, despite the warm feeling that settles inside his chest.

“He’s my second favorite superhero,” Sam adds, and Tony raises a hand to his chest in feigned offense. 

“Who’s your first favorite?”

“Captain America!” 

“Okay, you can let Uncle Steve hear that one,” he says, smirking slightly, “but anyway, I’ve developed a bit of a...counterpart. To Iron Man.” 

Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up at that, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“A sidekick?” Sam asks, eyes wide. 

“Exactly! You guys wanna meet her?” 

They both nod again, so aggressively that Tony is almost worried they’ll get whiplash. He grins and opens the box. 

“Hey, Iron Cat.” 

The cat’s eyes glow to life, and it stalks out of the box, servos whirring, the miniaturized arc reactor a steady blue light in the center of its chest. It’s red and gold components lock in and out of place with each movement, and Tony is pleased to note that the display isn’t off-putting in the slightest to Nat and Sam, who look pretty enamored.

“Iron cat?” Nat says, with an almost hushed reverence, “cats are my favorite animal!” 

The cat nuzzles its head up against Nat’s leg, and soon enough both her and Sam are sat on the ground, fawning all over it. Tony smiles, turning towards Bucky. 

“See? No danger.” 

“Hm. How sharp are those face plates?” 

He snorts. “No sharp edges, I promise. She’s a ‘bot so she’s not the most cuddly thing in the world, but she’s safe.” 

“No penchant for evil?” 

“She has a very rudimentary learning AI, like a baby JARVIS, but no penchant for evil.”

Bucky nods, folding his arms over his chest. “Well, they seem to like her.”

Tony turns back towards the duo, carefully concealing his mischievous smile. “Hey guys, did you know that Iron Cat can play fetch? _And_ hide and seek?” 

Nat gasps, while Sam reaches for a toy, and Tony is more than pleased when he hears an exasperated sigh from Bucky. 

“Is that an Iron man _cat?_ ” comes Steve’s voice from behind them, and Bucky steps aside with an amused shake of his head.

“Right on the money, pal. Tony brought her up just now.” 

Tony has to actively fight to keep his smile in place. “Yup. Finished her about two weeks ago, just didn’t have the time for a grand reveal until today.” 

Steve nods. “Well, she...she looks functional.” 

“ _Functional_ , he says.” 

“Hey, functional is a good thing!” 

Tony snorts. “Yeah, alright. Thanks, bud.”

They look at each other for a heartbeat or two, or what Tony _swears_ is a heartbeat or two, he’s sort of caught up in the concerned puppy-dog eyes Steve seems adamant on subjecting him to, before Bucky clears his throat. 

“Yeah, I’m sensing some tension here, so I’m just gonna...” 

He walks into the room and drops down onto the ground beside Sam and Nat, grinning when Iron Cat approaches him with a mechanical meow.

Tony lets out a breath. “Well, guess someone’s gotta teach them about the wonders of Iron Cat.” 

“Guess someone’s gotta,” Steve agrees, somewhat stiffly. 

He feels Steve’s gaze on the back of his neck even when he settles down on the rug, showing Sam and Nat various tricks that Iron Cat can perform on command. And _okay_ , he’s well aware that she behaves somewhat like a dog sometimes, but he’s a cat person and if we wants to build a robot cat that can do a back flip, he damn well will. 

Tony watches with a fond smile as Nat tucks herself into the corner of the room, walkie talkie pressed up to her mouth. 

“Iron Cat, this is Agent ‘Tasha, do you copy? Over.”

_Meow._

“Good. Agent Sam, do you copy? Over.” 

“Agent ‘Tasha, I copy. Do you see Mr.Fuzzle anywhere? Over.” 

God. He wants to wrap them both up in blankets. Has he mentioned yet that he has a total weak spot for these kids? Because at this rate they could ask him to hand the schematics for the mark XLV over to the United States Government and he’d probably comply. It’s somewhat concerning. 

Steve has settled down beside Bucky, a similarly fond look on his face as he watches the exchange. Then, he turns his gaze toward Tony, and that fond look doesn’t leave his face whatsoever, and Tony thinks he might die a very spontaneous death, because _man_ does that make him feel small.

He averts his eyes and grabs the spare walkie talkie. 

“Agent ‘Tasha, I think I have eyes on Mr.Fuzzle. Over.” 

“Oh! Where, Uncle Tony? We have the donuts safe here with Iron Cat but we might need help. Over.”

Tony carefully does _not_ look at Bucky or Steve over the course of the next hour. 


	2. a minor (major) complication

The re-test is scheduled for Friday, which Tony can absolutely work with. There’s just the extremely minor (major) complication of Steve pretty much knowing for certain that Tony is a little, as well as suspecting that he might cheat the test somehow. He expects, almost _wants_ , him to just snap at Tony, like he might’ve a year ago in the Avengers’ fledging stages, but he’s come to recognize that Steve’s stubborn patience knows no bounds. 

And then there’s that other complication — the fact that Tony’s little side seems to flare up at the mere _sight_ of Steve now, because he’s a caregiver, and he has that gentle voice he seems so adamant on using lately, the one that makes Tony want to melt into a puddle, and now he _knows_.

He has a close call on Monday where he raises his arms towards Steve like he wants to be picked up, before catching himself and managing to turn it into the world’s most awkward hug. Seriously. Tony considers moving across the country for a good few hours afterward. Then, when he gets over himself, he certainly does _not_ ask JARVIS to play the fond look that softens Steve’s features over and over again at the pro-offered _hug_. Because it was absolutely a hug. 

So, Tony is essentially hanging on by a thread, keeping himself together with the equivalent of dollar store glue and _definitely_ on the verge of coming apart, but he’s still certain that he can come up with something by the time Friday rolls around, with the research he has JARVIS doing. 

Then, Steve gets injured on what’s supposed to be a straight-forward reconnaissance mission, and Tony gets the news while he’s schmoozing some bigshot business executives at the Annual Maria Stark Foundation Gala, and for some reason _that_ has to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. 

He isn’t given any detail beyond the fact that a fucking _building_ collapsed down on Steve while he was in New Jersey, which— _how_ was Tony not aware that Steve was going to be on a mission in New Jersey in the first place, supposedly gathering intel on an AIM research facility that’s under construction? 

As he thinks of Steve, he can’t help but think of the newfound tension that clouds their every interaction, of the soft look he gives Tony sometimes, when he thinks he won’t be noticed, of the gentle hand he sets on Tony’s shoulder when they talk, and his heart downright _aches_. Before he knows it his eyes are burning with unshed tears, and the threads holding him together are rapidly coming apart. 

Pepper, sweet, _wonderful_ Pepper, who always seems to be in tune with him, who doesn’t know exactly _what_ is wrong but knows that _something_ is, loops an arm through his and tugs him behind one of the grand white pillars. 

Admittedly, his thoughts become a bit foggy from that point forth. 

“Steve got hurt, Pep,” he says, because he’ll be damned if _this_ is what makes him drop entirely into his headspace after decades of successfully staving it off. His bottom lip trembles, and he bites down on it to keep it steady. 

Pepper examines him for a moment, eyebrows furrowed slightly. He’s hit with an almost overwhelming urge to find something he can cuddle. 

“Okay,” she says, “okay, sweetheart, come with me and we’ll call Coulson, alright?” 

So, based on that response, maybe he isn’t doing the best job of acting big. Pepper’s voice is so _soft_ though, it curls around his heart and wraps tight, and all he can bring himself to do is give a jerky nod.

She guides him through the artificial laughter and the murmured chatter, the polished silver plates with flutes of precariously balanced champagne, the meticulously arranged tables and candles, until they reach the outdoor patio and Tony can look out at the sparkling night sky. 

“Alright, Tony, I’m gonna call Phil now, okay?” 

A part of him is still rebelling fiercely at the notion that he needs to be treated like a kid, but a larger part of him relishes in it, relishes in the arm she wraps around him, in the hand that gently guides his face to her shoulder. 

He closes his eyes, and he’s still teetering between headspaces, but somehow the tension wrought through his body falls away despite that.

“Okay. I’ll let him know. Thanks, Phil.” 

Tony jolts slightly as he’s torn away from his semi-slumber, raising his head lethargically to meet Pepper’s gaze. 

“Steve’s okay?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart, he’s okay. It’s not serious — he just got a bit of a bump on his head, and his ribs are a bit sore, that’s all. He’ll be awake soon.” 

Tony hesitates for a moment — he can’t remember thinking ever being this damn _hard_ , it’s like wading through an endless swamp. 

“We can...we can visit him?” 

An expression that’s somewhere between sad and pained steals over Pepper’s face, and the corners of her mouth twitch downward into a tight frown. 

“What’s wrong, Pep? Did I do something?” 

The smile she flashes him seems forced, but Tony doesn’t read too much into it. 

“Nothing’s wrong, honey, you didn’t do anything wrong. Happy’s gonna pick you up, and Phil’s gonna be there too, so you can go visit Steve. I’m sure he’ll be very happy to see you.” 

Tony’s heart sinks a little. “‘M not sure he will be, Pep.” 

Gentle hands run through his hair, and he leans into the contact with a sigh.

“Why not?” 

“‘Cause...’cause he’s been trying to help me, but I didn’t want anyone to know, so I’ve been...been mean to him. And you know too, now. I’m sorry.” 

Pepper’s response doesn’t come immediately, but when it does it sounds choked, as though it’s being physically forced from her throat. 

“Oh, Tony.” 

He looks up, and he doesn’t realize that his cheeks are wet with tears until Pepper carefully wipes them away, her smile wavering. A strong bout of evening breeze gusts by them, and he burrows his face into her neck with a shiver. 

“Steve wants you to be happy. It’s not good to be mean, but I’m sure he’ll understand. You don’t have to be sorry that we know now, okay?” 

“Okay,” he whispers, despite not quite believing it. “I’ll apologize to him for being mean,” he adds, and the next breath he takes in shudders slightly, which sends him spiraling into a fresh wave of tears, accompanied this time around by sobs that wrack through his body with a ferocity he hasn’t felt in a long time. He tries to take in an even breath, then ends up hiccupping through his quiet cries when that fails. He knows how to keep quiet. He can keep quiet no matter what.

“I know you will, honey,” she says, as she pulls a handkerchief out from her bag and begins to blot his tear-stained cheeks with it, “and he’ll still be happy to see you, I promise.“

Tony sniffles. “You’ll—you’ll be okay here? At the gala?” 

“I’ll be fine, Tony. There’s just one more hour left and then I’ll come see you at S.H.I.E.L.D., and maybe we can get some ice-cream, huh? Cheer Steve up a little bit?”

Tony nods. “‘S a good idea. He likes chocolate.” 

“Chocolate’s good. And let me guess, you like...strawberry?”

He laughs a little and nods. “Yeah...but it’s...it’s...” 

_Why doesn’t he eat ice cream again?_ Tony racks his brain for a moment, brows furrowing. 

“Dairy! It’s dairy. That’s why,” he says, before grimacing and tucking his face away again. “Sorry, Pep.” 

Pepper lets out a small sigh, and it almost sounds sad. Tony isn’t sure why. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart, you weren’t loud. I think I see Happy’s car over there, how about we walk over now?” 

Tony nods, and Pepper links their arms together as they descend down the cobblestone footpath, approaching a sleek black car. His nerves begin to bubble up to the surface as they walk, leaving him jittery and trembling. Pepper tightens her hold slightly, offering him a reassuring smile. 

“It’s only Happy and Phil.” 

He nods again. It’s only Happy and Agent Coulson. It’ll be okay. But—

“Does Happy know, Pep?” 

She hesitates for a moment. “He knows, but I promise you he’s perfectly okay with it, alright? He just wants you to be happy.” 

Tony can’t help a small grin. “Happy wants me to be happy.” 

Pepper’s tight smile melts a little around the edges. “That’s right, sweetheart.” 

She opens the back car door and exchanges a few murmured words with Coulson that Tony can’t quite catch. Then, she pulls him aside for a long hug. 

“I’ll be there soon, okay? Be good for Happy and Phil.” 

Tony knows how to be good, so he nods. 

“Thanks, Pep.” 

He has a very vague, almost peripheral awareness that he hasn’t fully dropped, but he still feels small, _much_ smaller than he has for a long time, so the smile he offers Coulson as he steps into the backseat is a little shy. 

“Hi.” 

Coulson smiles. “Hey, Tony. You ready to visit Steve?” 

Tony nods, wringing his hands together on his lap as Pepper reaches over to do up his seatbelt. His smile turns into a grimace.

“Sorry. I should’ve done that.” 

Pepper exhales, giving his arm a pat. “It’s fine, Tony. I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

“Okay. Bye, Pep,” he says, with a small wave, because it’s polite, and he thinks he must imagine the way her eyes seem almost glassy as she closes the door. 

Happy glances over the partition as he pulls out onto the road, and Tony can see in the rear view mirror that he has the same sort of smile on his face that Pepper had. “How are you doing, Bo—Tony?” 

He shrugs a little, fighting back the urge to slip his thumb into his mouth. “Okay, I guess. I wanna see Steve. I hope he’s not mad.” 

“He won’t be mad,” Coulson assures him, voice soft, “you don’t have to worry about that. We’re making a quick stop at the tower before we head back to S.H.I.E.L.D. to pick up a few things, is that okay with you?”

“Yeah,” Tony says, because it’s not good to make a fuss, “that’s okay.” 

Coulson’s smile is kind, but even he seems a little sad. Tony struggles to figure out why that is, why everyone _looks_ at him like that, but comes up frustratingly blank.

“It’ll be about ten minutes, but it’s pretty chilly out there so I brought you this for until we get to the tower,” says Coulson, and only then does Tony notice the bag that sits at his feet. He pulls out a fluffy red blanket that looks so soft that Tony’s eyes widen a little. 

He reaches out to take it, but hesitates, looking uncertainly over at Coulson. When Coulson just smiles and continues to offers it to him, Tony takes it with a happy little sigh. 

“Thank you.” 

Tony knows he’s probably supposed to wrap himself up in it, yet he can’t help but cling to it instead, rubbing his cheek against the material and smiling at how soft it feels. His eyes flutter shut, and he relaxes back against the seat, that floaty feeling from earlier returning almost tenfold. 

When Tony wakes up it’s to the sound of rhythmic footfalls against concrete. He still has the soft red blanket that Phil gave him in his clutches, and he knows that he’s being carried by someone, but he feels small and safe, so he lets his eyes flutter shut again, squirming a little to get comfortable.

Vaguely, he registers an elevator, and the soothing cadence of JARVIS’ voice, but he doesn’t tune in enough to listen in on what’s being said. 

Happy sets him down on a couch, and it takes Tony a moment or two to identify it as his own. He looks up at Phil with big eyes.

“Paci?” 

Phil softens considerably. “Do you have a paci, Tony? Can you show me?” 

Tony can do that, so he nods, and accepts the hand that Phil extends to him, leading him towards his bedroom. He stops in the centre of the room, eyebrows furrowed.

“...JARVIS?” 

“Yes, young sir?” 

“Paci?” 

“Of course.” 

The panel opens, and something flashes across Phil’s face, gone as quick as it appeared. 

“Okay, Tony, you seem pretty little right now, so I think we might have to get you into a diaper to avoid an accident. Is that okay? Can I help you?” 

Tony thinks for a moment, before nodding. Pep trusts Phil, and he doesn’t want an accident, and making a fuss isn’t good. 

Phil gives him a reassuring smile as he lays a mat out on the bed and retrieves a diaper from his bag. Tony lays down without question, which seems to surprise him a little, but he’s quick to gather himself again.

“Is there anything you’d like to wear to see Steve?” 

Tony thinks for a moment, a smile breaking out on his face when he decides. “Captain ‘Merica jammies.” 

Phil gasps. “Captain America jammies? Those sound good. Do you have them in your closet?”

Tony nods, practically beaming. “No shirt,” he sighs, smile flickering for a moment, “just pants.” 

“I’m sure Steve will love them anyway.”

Phil is well-practiced, and the process goes by quick when Tony doesn’t pay attention to it, so soon enough, he’s being helped into his Captain America pants and a soft shirt, waddling a little due to the diaper. 

Happy knocks on the door, and he looks alarmingly somber. “Nothing. No little equipment. Anything in here?” 

“A pacifier,” Phil murmurs back, sounding equally troubled, “I think that’s it.” 

Tony retrieves his pacifier while they talk, slipping it into his mouth. A smile spreads itself across Phil’s face when he turns. 

“Do you have any stuffies, Tony?” 

He hesitates, before nodding, removing his pacifier for a moment to say, “Cap Bear.” 

Realization dawns on Phil’s face. “The one Steve gave you? In the workshop?” 

Tony nods, and Happy gives his head a pat before leaving the room again. 

“Happy will grab your Cap Bear, then we’ll go see Steve, how does that sound?” 

He removes his pacifier again to say, “good,” offering the man a tiny smile. 

When he sees Steve again he can apologize, and maybe he won’t be mad, and they can give Steve chocolate ice cream to make him feel better. 

Happy returns as Tony and Phil are approaching the elevator, and Tony can’t help but squee a little when he sees his Cap Bear, garbled around the pacifier. 

“‘Ank you, Hap,” he says, accepting the pro-offered Cap Bear, and he gasps when Phil offers him the blanket on top of that. 

Tony points to himself, just to make sure, and Phil laughs a little.

“For you, Tony,” he confirms, pressing a gentle hand into his back to coax him forward into the elevator. 

He drifts in and out of sleep on the car ride to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, occasionally entering the fuzzy place between headspaces, where he’ll wonder what the hell he’s doing cuddling up to a blanket and a bear. It doesn’t last long, however, and he’s practically vibrating with pent-up energy by the time Happy parks, and Phil walks around to his side of the car to open the door for him. 

Their footsteps echo against the concrete walls, filling the vast, near-cavernous space. A majority of the S.H.I.E.L.D. employees have clearly already gone home. He hugs his Cap Bear and his blanket to his chest as he walks hand-in-hand with Phil towards the med-bay, where agents undertaking confidential missions can be treated with some discretion on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s part. They don’t pass anyone on the way, which Tony is considerably grateful for, but he still can’t help but feel a little nervous as they approach Steve’s room. 

Phil must sense his trepidation, because he gives his hand a squeeze. “He’ll be happy to see you, I promise.”

Tony nods, hanging back with Happy as Phil opens the door. 

“Mr. Rogers, good to see that you’re awake. Have you gotten a visit from a nurse, yet?”

Steve sighs. “Yeah. They wanna keep me here overnight. Then tomorrow, for debriefing and paperwork.” 

“I’d say that’s a pretty good deal, considering what happened. I have someone here who wants to see you.” 

He takes that as his cue, shuffling towards the doorway and into the room, sucking more adamantly on his pacifier. Phil steps aside, and Steve’s eyes widen when they land on him. His chest is wrapped up in bandages, and there a few deep cuts along his arms that seemed to have required stitches, alongside some heavy bruising, but to Tony’s relief, he seems mostly okay. Still, he can’t help the tears that spring to his eyes, unbidden. 

“He was very worried about you,” Phil says, and Steve seems to melt entirely, blue eyes soft as they take in the Cap Bear and the blanket in Tony’s clutches.

Tony removes his pacifier to say, “I’m sowwy I was mean to you.” 

Steve lets out a strangled noise, shaking his head and scrambling to sit up right. “It’s— _gosh_ , it’s okay, Tony, of course it is. I understand that it’s hard sometimes.” 

A tear slips down Tony’s cheek, and Steve looks about ready to tear out the IV in his arm and stand up from his bed when Phil intervenes, giving Tony’s shoulder a pat. 

“You want some help climbing up with Steve? I think I know two people who could do with a hug right about now.” 

Tony nods, and Phil manages to help him up onto the bed, Steve assisting as best he can. Tony shuffles forward and settles on Steve’s lap, silent tears streaking his face as he wraps his arms around his neck and practically falls into his chest, Cap Bear squished in between Steve and the bed railing. 

The hug lasts a long while, but Tony doesn’t mind one bit, burrowing into the crook of Steve’s neck and relishing in how warm and cosy he feels. Gradually, bit by bit, the tightness in his throat eases and his shuddering intakes of breath even out. When he pulls away, Steve’s eyes are roaming his face, a soft smile curling his lips as he wipes a stray tear away with his thumb. 

He reaches over for the Cap Bear. “This is one handsome bear you’ve got, Tony. Where’d you get it?” 

Tony giggles, only remembering to take out his pacifier when it starts to slip. 

“You got Cap Bear for me,” he says. 

Steve gasps. “Did I? What about these cute jammies?” he asks, giving Tony’s thigh an affectionate pat. 

“‘at was Nat. She got the jammies, ‘cause Captain ‘Merica is my favouwite.” 

Steve tips his head a little to the side, smile soft, before directing his gaze almost desperately towards Phil, who just laughs. “I know. You should’ve seen the car ride.” 

He looks back over at Tony, running a soothing hand up and down his back. “You wanna know a secret, Tony?” 

When Tony nods, his smile widens a little. “I have a pair of Iron Man jammies just like that.”

He gasps at that. “I’on Man?” 

“That’s right,” he says, “they’re one of my favourites.” 

Tony contemplates this for a moment, before breaking out into a smile. “You li’e the I’on Man jammies?” 

“I _love_ them.” 

Tony’s smile widens, and he slips his pacifier back into his mouth, snuggling into Steve, who presses a quick kiss to his temple.

“Sleepy, sweetheart?” 

“No,” he says, the syllable garbled around a yawn, and he can feel Steve’s chest shake slightly with laughter.

Tony‘s gaze drops briefly down to the bandages, and he rears back in alarm. “Hurts?” 

Steve shakes his head, brushing Tony’s hair back from his face. “You’re not hurting me, Tony, it’s okay. It’s only a small ouchie.” 

“Small?” he asks, looking over the bandages skeptically. 

“Those are just there for protection,” he assures, “you can sleep, baby. You were really brave today and I’m sure you’re tired, huh?” 

Tony nods. “Tired.” 

“Tired but not sleepy?” Steve smiles, giving his side a quick tickle, which Tony squirms away from with a giggle. 

“Tired not s’eepy,” he confirms, gathering up his Cap Bear in his arms and burying his face in Steve’s neck. 

Steve’s hands come up, one to the small of Tony’s back and the other to nape of his neck, rubbing small circles. 

He tunes out the quiet chatter that starts up between Steve, Phil and Happy, letting out a content sigh. 

When Pepper arrives about twenty minutes later, it’s to the sight of a peacefully sleeping Tony and a incredibly fond-looking Steve, which is all she can really ask for, considering how stressful it must’ve been for Tony to drop like that. 

She carefully does _not_ think about how long Tony has been hiding this, about how he coped with it in Afghanistan, about how many times he’s run himself into the ground while suppressing headspace, about how Howard must’ve reacted to his classification. Those will be things to deal with when Tony is in a bigger headspace. 

The ice cream will also have to happen another time. She has no doubts that once Tony is more comfortable with sharing his little side, the others will probably end up spoiling him quite a bit. 

That is — if they get there before her, of course. Or Rhodey, now that she thinks about it. Unfortunately, not even they are immune to those big eyes. 

“I call dibs on taking him out for ice cream and build-a-bear,” she says. 

Steve considers this for a moment, then he nods, expression resolute.

“I call dibs.” 

“On...?” Phil coaxes, arching an eyebrow. 

“No, that’s it. I just call dibs.” 

Pepper snorts. “Okay, never mind, we should really wait until Tony’s in his big headspace.”

Steve nods, brows furrowing slightly with worry. “Think he’s gonna freak out?” 

“If he does,” says Pepper, stepping forward and running delicate fingers through Tony’s hair, “then we’ll be there for him. It doesn’t look like he’s been dropping nearly enough, so it’ll be a big adjustment. But I’ve stuck out major life changes with him before. He’ll be fine, Steve. He just needs time.” 

Steve seems content with that answer, relaxing back into the pillows as though that confirmation is what he’s been waiting for. He looks down at Tony for a beat or two, before meeting her gaze again, looking almost as if he’s in despair. 

“He’s so damn cute.” 

“You know, I am _unfathomably_ glad that someone is finally experiencing my constant crisis.” 

Phil huffs a laugh at that, and Steve grins.

Pepper gets the feeling that it’ll turn out okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl this was all written over the span of one all-nighter while i was hopped up on coffee and it's currently morning and i am probably going to go pass out in like two seconds but!! i am definitely interested in writing more parts if people would like to see that :) i have a lot of feelings abt caregiver!steve in particular he's just so <3


	3. the appointment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prefacing this by saying that while i was typing a response to a comment on the previous chapter i accidentally deleted it so if that was you and you notice your comment is gone i am SO sorry no one should allow me near a phonescreen when i'm tired just know that i saw it and i appreciate it <33

Tony isn’t a spy. 

Really, he’s never had much of an urge to _become_ one either, occasional tips from Natasha aside. 

He thinks maybe he’ll start taking spy lessons or something when he gets back to the tower though, because his attempt to escape Steve’s medbay bed without detection the following morning is downright _laughable._ He’ll have to remember to ask JARVIS to hack into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s security feed and conveniently corrupt this particular part of the file, because although his dignity may be in tatters, he’s certainly not looking to make things any worse for himself. 

Which, of course, brings him to his current predicament. 

“Going somewhere?” 

Steve’s eyes are alight with amusement as he peers over the edge of the bed, down at Tony, who’s mentally running over every Seattle house listing he’d found during his idle scrolling the other day. No, he’s not being dramatic. If anything, he’s being _pragmatic_. 

“Yeah, actually. Think I got a meeting with the board in like fifteen minutes. _Several_ meetings, in fact, that are definitely going to take up the entire day, _week_ even, you know how board members are. Or maybe you don’t. Point is, this has been fun, really, but it’s time for me to tap out.” 

Sunlight streams inside through the raised blinds, tinging the tips of Steve’s a pale gold. He levels him with this unbearably calm expression, quiet determination underpinning it. Tony doesn’t know if it’s all of the white that surrounds him, the sharp scent of antiseptic invading his nose, or the fact that the events of last night are _really_ starting to hit him now, previously vague memories unfolding before his very eyes in blinding color and excruciating detail, but he’s starting to feel a little nauseous. 

“That’s funny,” Steve says, as Tony finally gathers his wits and gets to his feet, “because Pepper _just_ texted me saying that you don’t have a single meeting scheduled for today.” 

Tony decides then and there that Pepper is a traitor, and that he can officially never trust her again. His throat clicks around a harsh swallow, and he takes a deep, centering breath, shutting his eyes briefly against the thoughts that are racing through his brain, so quickly that trying to grab onto one is like trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.

“Tony, it’s okay.” 

Steve’s voice sounds just the slightest bit closer than it had a few moments ago. His eyes flutter open, and sure enough, he’s sitting upright now, legs dangling over the side of the bed. He feels somewhat like a cornered animal, despite the door that’s right behind him, practically calling his name. 

“You love saying that. Is it a caregiver thing? The never-ending giddy optimism? Or is just a Captain America thing?” 

Steve sighs. “You’re gonna have a hard time talking your way out of this.” 

“Really? I think I do pretty well for myself, mostly.” 

“I’m sure you do. But this is important — no one’s judging you for last night.” 

Tony laughs, because if he doesn’t, he’ll probably do something drastic, like turn around and scamper away like he’s totally incapable of facing things head on. Steve’s arm twitches, but he doesn’t make any move to touch him, which Tony is grateful for. His brain is already on overdrive, and everything feels like _too much._

He’s used to feeling overwhelmed, but he’s also used to being able to organize his thoughts and get a damn _grip_ on himself. He’s not the type to wallow or anything, but right now he wants nothing more than to bury himself in so much work that he can never resurface again, never has to deal with the idea of Steve seeing him so vulnerable, of seeing through every mask right down to the very depths of him. Maybe he’s always been able to do that, but at least Tony could hide behind the _illusion_ then, the image he projects almost effortlessly.

“Tony? You with me?” 

He’s drawn away from his head at that, only realizing then that his breaths are coming out fast and disjointed, hands raised subconsciously to the arc reactor. The surrounding area always aches a bit when he’s hyperventilating, like the skin where it’s embedded is suddenly far, _far_ too tight. 

“I’d really prefer not to be,” he snaps, tamping down on a wince at how harsh it comes out. 

“Slow breaths, alright?” Steve coaxes, in lieu of a response. 

He almost tells him that he _knows damn well how to handle a panic attack_ , but guilt climbs his throat at the mere _thought_ of it, so he resolves instead to try and get a handle on his breathing. Miraculously enough, he hasn’t worked himself up into a full-blown panic, so he steadfastly ignores every single urge he has to cling onto Steve and manages to quell at least most of the blinding dread. 

“Oh god,” he whispers, to no one in particular, “Coulson — Pepper — Happy —“

“All want the best for you,” Steve finishes, leaning back against the bed, clearly going for unintimidating. His hair’s all mussed, but his injuries seem marginally better than the previous night, thanks to the wonders of the serum, Tony supposes. 

“You want me to believe you’re _not_ gonna start heckling me to drop more?”

Steve’s gaze briefly flickers away from him. “It _is_ important, health-wise,” he hedges.

Tony scoffs derisively, pacing over to the chair in the corner of the room and pointing a finger at him.

“See, but that’s the thing! I’ve been doing _fine_ , my whole life. I’ve been functioning at perfectly reasonable levels, without weekly drops. You know what that tells me, Cap? That it’s unnecessary. For me, at least.” 

Steve shakes his head, sighing a little to himself. Tony thinks, at the very least, that if he’s gearing up for a lecture, he’ll make a pretty funny picture — shirtless, save for some bandages, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants, looking vaguely like a hot mess. On the flip side, Steve seems to have a way of _really_ getting to him sometimes, making him falter, reconsider, making him feel stripped bare, exposed. For a soldier, he sure as hell can use his words. 

“You don’t have to settle for just ‘functioning.’”

“I don’t see why not. Functioning has worked out pretty well for me so far.” 

“It’s also ended with you involuntarily dropping. What if it catches up to you again? Say, during a mission? While you’re trying to protect civilians?”

His voice is firm, but a certain softness underlies it, like he can somehow _tell_ that Tony isn’t as anchored in his big headspace as he wants to be. The clothes he's currently wearing aren't exactly helping matters.

Tony’s stomach churns. Every single racing thought he has comes to a screeching halt, because Steve’s _right_ , because if he could drop at a bustling gala, who’s to say he couldn’t drop while piloting the armor? He didn’t think it was possible, with all of the adrenaline spiraling through his veins, all the environmental factors that should be keeping him in his big headspace, but then last night had happened. None of his careful calculations could’ve accounted for that. 

He wonders vaguely if the walls are actually closing in on him or if his tenuous grip on reality is finally slipping through his fingers. 

“I’d prefer if you spent more time in your little headspace for your health, because you shouldn’t have to put up with feeling sick all the time,” Steve speaks up again, and Tony, weak, can’t even _look_ at him. “But if protecting the lives of other people is the only way you can rationalize it, then so be it. We need you, Tony. Preferably at the top of your game. You’re good at what you do, but there’s only so much one person can take. Trust me.”

“I’m not exactly useful to anyone while I’m sucking on a pacifier, Cap.” 

He tries to infuse his voice with conviction, but he falls drastically short.

Something like recognition flashes across Steve’s face. “You don’t have to spend every waking moment being useful to other people.” 

Tony’s hit by the sudden urge to start crying. He decides to blame it on the fact that his little side is gradually starting to seep it’s way to the forefront, insidious as it is. 

He turns away, towards the door. “If I walk out this room right now, will there be an entourage of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents waiting to sweep me away for a long-winded meeting about little protocols?” 

Behind him, Steve huffs a laugh. “As far as S.H.I.E.L.D. officially knows you’re still undetermined, at least until your test on Friday.” He hesitates, before adding “you could stay, though.” 

“I could,” Tony agrees, throwing a wry smile over his shoulder. “See you, Cap.” 

He wants to turn around, walk into the circle of Steve’s arms and hug him until he feels decidedly _less_ like he’s coming apart. The horrifying thing is that he can’t even _pretend_ to blame that on his little instincts acting up. 

“See you, Tony,” he hears, and there’s a definite note of disappointment in that tone. 

He exits the room without so much as another glance back, more than relieved to find Happy walking toward him, two vending machine drinks in his hands. 

“Ready to go, boss? I bought some clothes for you to change into.” 

“Happy, you’re a saint.”

Happy just snorts. “Let’s find a bathroom.” 

As they make a beeline for the nearest bathroom — thank _god_ it’s early morning and thank _god_ there aren’t people around yet — he sends Sam and Nat a quick text, telling them that Steve could use some company, just in case they aren’t already on their way after hearing from Coulson. The thought of leaving him alone hurts Tony’s heart a little.

He, of course, carefully does _not_ mention his spontaneous overnight stay at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. 

Soon enough, they’re approaching Happy’s car, and Tony’s mind is already working at a million miles an hour, coming up with solutions to his current predicament.

Coulson knows, so faking the test is no longer a viable option. But neither is dropping twice a week, not when someone has the kind of past that he has, not when being able to deprive himself of this _one thing_ gives him an alarming amount of satisfaction, more than he’s willing to admit. 

Ultimately, however, he doesn’t want anyone else to be affected, much less _hurt_ by, any more involuntary drops. Contrary to popular belief, he _does_ actually care about the superhero day-job he’s somehow fallen into. 

There has to be a middle ground. He’s always had a knack for those. 

~

“I’m _telling_ you, platypus, no one cares about the president, if you wanna impress someone you have to name-drop _me_ in your stories.” 

“Right, _right_ , because Iron Man is so much better than War Machine—“ 

“War machine? Oh thank god, I was starting to think you refer to yourself as _Iron Patriot_ while you’re on dates. I genuinely _cannot_ think of a bigger mood killer. Also, and correct me if I’m wrong here, what I’m _hearing_ is that you don’t wanna mention _me_ , your best pal, but you _will_ mention the president. I bet you even told her that you saved him without me.” 

“Yeah, because I _did_. You know what else I did? Went up against a bunch of firebreathers without a suit. Dropped that tank in front of the general’s palace. Totally saved your ass multiple times. My War Machine stories don’t _need_ Iron Man in them unless he’s a _very_ minor side character.”

Tony brings his hands up to his chest with a dramatic gasp. “I’m telling Roberta you said that.” 

“You can’t go crying to my mom every time I—wait, _wait_ , hold on a second, you just did it again! You just distracted me again by starting an argument. Man.”

Tony blinks, schooling his features to seem as innocent as possible. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, honeybear.” 

“ _Don’t know what I’m_ —I’ve been trying to have an actual conversation with you about the fact that you’ve, you know, _hidden the fact that you’re a little your whole life_ , for this _entire_ car ride.” 

He lets out a sigh. It’s not _impossible_ to hide things from Rhodey, but he certainly doesn’t like doing it. There’s an easy comfort in being with him, a remnant from late nights spent together in their shared MIT dorm, from early morning misadventures in coffee shops and parking lots. Even now, when by all accounts he should be panicking, Tony feels a calmness that’s almost tangible, filling the space between them. 

Currently, he’s tucked up into the corner of a backseat, his knees drawn up to his chest, decidedly _not_ thinking about the fact that they’re headed straight towards S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters for an appointment regarding his test results. He’s not even that concerned about how childish he looks at that moment, because Happy and Rhodey both know now, and he can’t bring himself to care. 

He’s successfully managed to avoid Steve for the most part, a surprisingly easy feat, considering that once JARVIS told him that he’d been denied entry to the workshop he didn’t try again. They exchanged friendly small talk at an Avengers meeting, worked perfectly fine together on the field, and he knows that Pepper has been giving him updates for the past few days, even if she won’t admit to it. Tony knows, too, that it’s a little... _juvenile_ , but he’s still getting his bearings after their last conversation, and he doesn’t want to be thrown off kilter again, not for the time being.

Besides, it’s more passive avoidance than active avoidance. Really. It’s not like he’s asking JARVIS to tell him exactly who’s on the communal floor before he enters or anything. That would be ridiculous.

Rhodey must interpret the lapse in conversation as Tony having a bit of an internal freak-out, because he hesitates for a beat, before shrugging, unbuckling his seatbelt, and scooting over into the middle seat. Happy doesn’t even bat an eye. 

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m not mad or anything.” 

“I know you’re not,” says Tony, leaning happily into Rhodey’s side when he wraps an arm around his shoulders. “I know what you look like when you’re mad.” 

“Intimidating? Badass?”

“Like a kitten.” 

Rhodey takes a deep breath. “I’m not engaging. I’m not engaging.” 

A smile tugs at Tony’s lips, and he snuggles further into his side, letting out a content sigh. At this point, he’s not even ashamed to admit how much he misses Rhodey while he’s away. He _loves_ him, okay. Sue him. 

He feels the way Rhodey softens too, tension bleeding away from his shoulders in a rush. 

“You didn’t think I’d react badly, did you?” 

Tony rears back for a moment, just so that his horror at that statement is impossible to misinterpret. 

“What the hell? Of course not.” 

Rhodey laughs. “Okay, okay, chill. Just making sure. You _do_ know it’s okay though, right? I know plenty of badass littles. You included, now.” 

“Rhodeybear. Did you just call me badass? _God_ , why didn’t I interface JARVIS with this car, I _need_ to have that as your ringtone like yesterday.” 

“Yeah. Don’t let it get to your head,” he deadpans, but there’s a smile twitching on his face. “Alright, listen, _definitely_ for real this time, how are you holding up? Are you okay?” 

“I _will_ be, once this all blows over.” 

“I don’t think that’s how it works. You know given your age, they’re probably gonna—“

“Make me sign away my freedom? Got that.”

“— _Assign you a caregiver,_ ” Rhodey continues, “you know I’d gladly step in whenever, but...”

“You’re a busy man, _and_ you’re not a caregiver. It’s okay, sourpatch, I get it.”

Briefly, he thinks back to Wednesday, to sitting in Steve’s lap, to the way he’d wiped his tears away with a gentleness that was almost ridiculous, given how much raw strength he possesses. Before he knows it, a wave of longing crashes down over him, and his chest borderline _aches_ with it. He can’t ask that of Steve. He feels mortified at the mere prospect of it, of regularly allowing _Captain America_ of all people to see him so vulnerable. If Howard were still alive he’d have about eight heart attacks. 

Because Steve is...well, _Steve_. He’s fiercely loyal, endlessly protective, stubborn as all hell, and _good_ , so damn good that it scares Tony sometimes. It’s hard _not_ to feel drawn to someone who can go from a soldier that throws his shield with deadly precision on the field to a guy with a goofy smile that likes to draw his teammates in his spare time and stick magnets to his best friend’s metal arm. There was a time when Tony wanted to resent him, wanted to _hate_ him for being everything he couldn’t be, but he’s come to realize since then that it’s always Howard’s voice in his head, feeding those things to him. 

“Hey, Tones? Earth to Tony? Anyone in there?” 

He blinks rapidly, forcing away thoughts about Steve’s kind eyes, and his gentle voice, and his strong arms, and— _Jesus fuck,_ okay, he has a problem. A certified problem. A massive, earth-shattering—

“I swear to god, Tones, if you’re sleeping with your eyes open—“

“What? Hi. Yes. Hey. I’m good. Are we here? Oh, good. Let’s go. I love doctors.” 

He’s met by a twin pair of mildly concerned expressions, which he very happily ignores in favor of opening his car door, attempting to stand up, being forcibly dragged back down by his seat belt, and glaring when Rhodey begins to laugh.

“Nevermind. I’m not interfacing JARVIS with this car. What happens in this car _stays_ in this car. We clear, guys?”

Rhodey just grins and reaches over to undo his seatbelt. “If this were literally _any_ other situation, I’d have already texted Pepper.” 

~ 

Tony almost laughs out loud when the evaluator tells him that he’s a little, largely because he’s beginning to feel just the slightest bit hysterical. Rhodey must be a mind reader or something because he squeezes his hand in assurance, and he finds himself suddenly feeling _extremely_ grateful that he’s managed to snag a day off. 

“Based on biological markers and psychological testing, I’d place your age range between 1 and 3 years, but even that’s not rigid — we often find in littles that have suppressed headspace for a long time that their age can fluctuate a fair amount, especially initially. You might tend towards a younger age when a drop is involuntarily, or brought on by acute stress. Environmental factors have a role too, of course, some of those are outlined in the booklet I gave you. Bladder control can also be a little unpredictable—“

“I don’t have too much trouble with that, generally,” Tony says quickly, cheeks reddening slightly. 

The lady — Emily — has a carefully rehearsed smile spread across her face. “That’s normal too. Different littles struggle more with different things. I’ve outlined some essential equipment for your particular age range, which you can obviously go through with a caregiver. I’ll also send you off with a letter for your caregiver to read as well, with more specifics about your test results. The comprehension and language milestones that you exhibited in particular were impressive, for your age range.”

Tony can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips.

Rhodey sighs. “Of course you’re a smart toddler.” 

“I’m wounded that you expected any less,” says Tony. 

Emily’s smile melts into something more genuine. “One of the best I’ve seen for your age range,” she admits. “I should also warn you that as you begin to drop more regularly, it may become harder to suppress your little headspace for longer periods. You may experience more intense mood swings, dizziness or lightheadedness, muscle aches, unexpected weight loss or fatigue. Your heart rate and blood pressure are pretty low for a man of your height, weight, and build, all three of which are within a perfectly healthy range. That suggests some...well, to put it simply, hormonal imbalances. As your body rights itself, there may be a bit of discomfort as well. It shouldn’t be too severe, but I suggest you make an appointment with your GP if you’re experiencing anything particularly unusual — intense pain or muscle aches, a consistently low mood. They can decide where to go from there.” 

Tony takes all of this in, feeling inexplicably detached from his own body. The sheer _reality_ of this, of a medical practitioner discussing his little headspace as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, of dropping more in the near future, of even _getting_ a caregiver, is finally starting to hit him, in one great big emotional rush that he’s struggling to process. None of that sounds like the middle ground he’s been hoping for.

He listens with a detached interest as Rhodey asks a few questions, gaze straying to the booklet in his hands. It’s certainly not discreet, with his age range in big, bold letters, and various animated toys surrounding it. He can’t help but feel a little taunted, so he flips it over, sighing when that just displays a cartoon image of a caregiver and their little, giant goofy smiles painted across their faces. 

Fucking _perfect_. 

“Mr.Stark?” 

“Hm? Oh, sorry, what was that?” 

Emily offers him a tentative smile. “I asked if you had any questions for me?” 

He side-eyes Rhodey, who seems to be trying to look as encouraging as physically possible, despite the concern Tony can practically feel radiating from him. 

“Uh, no. No, I’m good. Thank you.” 

“Okay, well, that’s all from me. I’m sure S.H.I.E.L.D. will have a few more things they’d like to discuss with you. If you have any more concerns, just have a chat with your GP, they’ll be able to refer you to a specialist.” 

“Thank you for that,” says Rhodey, as he guides Tony toward the door with an arm looped through his. 

He’s honestly surprised that his limbs are even cooperating, given the numbness that’s swamped him. It feels as though the motor messages from his brain shouldn’t even _be_ firing. His loafers click a little against the tiled floor, and he can distantly hear tapping against keyboards and murmured chatter. The wafting scent of bitter coffee reaches his nose, and he can feel Rhodey’s skin pressed up against his, warm from the sun that pours inside. That’s at least, what, three senses? He’s probably fine. And oh look, there’s Coulson, approaching them with that unassuming smile that seems almost permanently etched into his face. 

“Mr.Stark.” 

“Agent Coulson.” 

“I trust that the appointment went well.”

“Why, you invested in me or something?” 

Coulson’s smile widens for a moment. He holds out a data chip, which has Tony sending Rhodey a confused glance. 

“What’s this?” he asks, as he takes it. 

“Briefing packet. JARVIS should be able to scan it.” 

“Trying not to take offense to that ‘ _should be.’_ Is this in place of a meeting?”

“I thought you might prefer reading up on our protocols yourself than being briefed on them by S.H.I.E.L.D.” 

“I could kiss you right now, Agent.” 

“I’d really prefer if you didn’t,” he says, which has Rhodey snorting. “Let me know if you have any questions. I’ll schedule a follow-up appointment for next week, that one’s unavoidable I’m afraid.” 

“I’ll live, somehow,” Tony assures him. 

Coulson opens his mouth to say something, before hesitating, which is, well, _rare_ , to say the least. 

“I think you should have a conversation with Steve.” 

Tony doesn’t tense up, despite the jolt of shock that races through him. He _hates_ that he immediately knows exactly what Coulson means. 

Rhodey’s eyebrows steadily climb his forehead as he examines Coulson closely, before turning toward Tony. Realization steals over his face. 

“ _About—_ “

“The weather? Current events? Yeah. I think we’re overdue for a nice friendly chat. Thank you very much, Agent Coulson, but I think there are some cheeseburgers with our names on them, right platypus?” 

“...Right,” Rhodey agrees. 

“Of course. I’ll leave you two to your very important business,” Coulson says pleasantly. 

Tony watches him go for a moment, before slinging an arm over Rhodey’s shoulders. “I wasn’t kidding about those cheeseburgers.” 

“You’re _never_ kidding about cheeseburgers.” 

Tony nods. “They’re not a joking matter.” 

“Of course they aren’t.” 

Rhodey doesn’t mention Steve once during their trip to Mcdonald’s. Tony can almost ignore the fact that he’s having the world’s most dramatic internal crisis. 

~ 

The sight that greets Tony upon stepping out of the elevator and into his penthouse almost makes him turn right back around and click the button for the first floor. Rhodey has a gentle hand resting on the small of his back though, keeping him in place. 

Pepper and Steve, who have clearly just been talking, exchange a glance before standing up from the couch. Pepper looks collected as always, heels clacking sharply against the tiles as she makes her way over. Steve is wearing a shirt that Tony knows for a _fact_ is ridiculously soft, and the sight of it has his brain stuttering to a momentary halt. He’s sporting a mild version of his kicked puppy look, likely without meaning to. 

Tony decides that Rhodey and Pepper are _both_ complete and utter traitors, and that he _really_ needs some new friends, and _holy shit,_ does he want to hug Steve. 

“Rhodey! You remember that _thing_ we were discussing the other day, don’t you?” Pepper asks, with obvious faux-innocence.

Rhodey pats his back, and Tony shoots him a betrayed look as he moves forward, meeting her halfway. 

“Oh, you mean the thing that’s _not_ on this floor, right?” 

“Exactly that,” Pepper agrees. 

She presses a kiss to Tony’s cheek as she passes, which, admittedly, makes him feel just the slightest bit small. He shrugs it off, out of spite more than anything, turning toward Steve with what he hopes isn’t a blatant grimace. 

“So,” says Tony, as he approaches the couch and takes a seat, “should I be concerned that you’re all conspiring against me? Because I gotta tell you, I’m paranoid enough as it is.” 

Steve’s smile has a sheepish edge to it as he takes a seat, on the opposite end of the couch. Tony wants nothing more than to close the gap between them. 

“Yeah, sorry. I wasn’t sure if you’d agree to see me, and this might be uh, you know, time-sensitive.” 

Tony heaves a sigh. This might as well happen. It’s late afternoon and between dark clouds that hold the promise of rain, there’s a sea of blue outside. The sun is sinking down towards the horizon, leaving reds and pinks in its wake. It’s warm. _Very_ warm. And the couch cushions are soft, so soft in fact that he’s able to sink right into them. He kind of, sort of, _really_ wants his Cap Bear all of a sudden, but he’s quick to shove _that_ particular thought away to the very back of his mind. Even his brain is a traitor now, apparently.

“Alright, then. Hit me, Cap.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, he’s lifting his gaze to meet Tony’s. “S.H.I.E.L.D. will probably want you to have a caregiver, given your age,” he begins. 

Tony snorts. “So I’ve been informed, _constantly_ , for the past three days.”

“Right, yeah,” he says, a little abashed, “it’ll probably be someone you won’t know, which might be hard, seeing as its a pretty big chance of pace to begin with.” 

Tony stretches his arms out above his head, offering Steve a lethargic smile. “I’ve dealt with worse. Did I ever tell you about those extremis enhanciles?” 

“Yeah, and I’m _still_ not over the fact that you didn’t call me.” 

“Oh, come on, capsicle, we weren’t nearly as buddy-buddy back then.” 

“What, you mean like three months ago?” 

“You’re just upset that you didn’t get to fight those firebreathers.”

“They _breathed_ fire,” says Steve, as though that in itself is an explanation. 

Tony smiles, amused. “Yeah, the term ‘firebreather’ does generally imply that. Look, if we’re being real here, I did you a solid — just _imagine_ if you’d gotten that kevlar tac suit singed. America would’ve fallen.”

“I’m sure America would’ve been—wait a second. You’re distracting me. Rhodes _literally_ told me this would happen.” 

“And here I was thinking we were just having a nice talk,” Tony laments. 

“The nice talk can come _after_ this.” 

Tony sighs, but he’s not really that put-out. He swings his legs up onto the couch, leaning back against the armrest. 

“If you insist.” 

Steve nods, visibly steeling himself. “Okay. As I was saying, having someone for a caregiver you don’t know might be hard, and...well, I don’t exactly have a little, so what I guess I'm trying to say is that...I wouldn’t mind stepping in. If that’s something you’d be interested in.” 

Oh. 

_Oh._

“You’re—offering to be my caregiver. Is that what’s happening right now?” 

Steve rubs at the back of his neck, clearly feeling a little awkward, but he doesn’t break their eye contact. Tony feels numb with shock all over again. 

“Yeah. Pretty much.” 

“You don’t have to do this just because you think it’ll be easier on me,” he says, “I know your noble Captain America instincts or whatever kick in when you see someone who _might_ need help but—“

“No, it’s—I want it too. It wouldn’t be just for your benefit.” 

Tony gives him a skeptical look.

“Caregivers have instincts too,” Steve reminds him, all wide-eyed and earnest, “and mine have sort of been on overdrive since the ice, even if I wasn’t exactly ready back then. Plus...” he hesitates here, finally averting his gaze. “Pretty much everyone wants— _expects_ —violence from me _,_ not even just this century. Ever since the serum. Which is fine, for the most part. But that other night, when you were little...it just feels nice, not being asked for that, having someone who _doesn’t_ need that from me. Being able to use the enhanced strength thing for something _other_ than punching people out.” 

Tony considers this for a moment, runs through all the people that have ever given Steve orders to fight, or to kill. And, miraculously enough, it makes _sense_ , wanting that juxtaposition. 

He looks up to find Steve staring back at him, and he can’t detect any insincerity in the hopeful smile that curls at the corner of his mouth. _Sure_ , Tony can’t ask this of him, but is he really _asking_ if Steve was the one to bring it up in the first place? 

Remnants of light from the dying sun are speckled across the cough. He feels warm, and _tired_ , now that he thinks about it, a sort of tired that runs bone-deep, that one night of good sleep wouldn’t be able to fix. _Maybe_ , if Steve wants this too, it’s okay. Maybe he’s allowed to be a little selfish.

Steve’s expression has fallen a little, and he’s clearly on the verge of apologizing when Tony clears his throat and says, “I’d like that.”

He pauses, before adding, "and I'm sorry, about the whole 'avoiding you' business. It's just...a lot." 

"It's alright, Tony. I get it."

If anything, the way Steve’s entire demeanor brightens from that point forth makes everything worth it. Which, really, has to be about the sappiest thought he’s ever had, and _man_ , did he actually just say _‘I’d like that’_?’

Oh well. Too late to take it back. He’s one hundred percent a changed man now. Maybe he’ll even delete those Seattle house listings he had JARVIS bookmark. 

Speaking of which—

“Hey, J, did you delete that footage from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s database?” 

“Indeed, sir.” 

Steve arches an eyebrow. “Do I wanna know?” 

“Unfortunately, you already do,” says Tony, standing up from the couch. “I am in _dire_ need of a drink. Can I get you anything? A capri-sun, maybe?” 

“You’re funny,” he deadpans, before pausing. “...A capri-sun would be great.” 

Tony grins and makes for the bar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :OOOO they're getting there guys.......


	4. 60 hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for this chapter: discussions about parental abuse (both physical and verbal), not in super great depth but it is definitely there so if that's a possible trigger for you please be careful <3

Tony looks over the S.H.I.E.L.D. briefing ‘packet’, which takes a solid hour or two out of his otherwise enjoyable Thursday, but it’s not too much of a hardship. It’s been a few days since Steve’s offer, and they haven’t discussed it since, so really, he probably should’ve seen it coming when Steve subtly pulls him aside after a team dinner. He swoops in the moment his conversation with Natasha about the best brands of vodka comes to a lull, hand resting on Tony’s forearm.

“When’s the last time you slept?”

The question is casual, but Tony can tell there’s more to it than just asking after his sleep patterns. His eyebrows raise, and he shoots a furtive glance toward Natasha and Clint, who have dish duty tonight, to ensure that they’re caught up in their own conversation. 

“I could ask you the same thing. Weren’t you up at like 2 am last night?” 

Steve shrugs. “I was training.” 

“At _2 am?_ ” 

“Alright fine, maybe we could both do with some sleep.” 

“ _You_ can sleep, I’ve got stuff in the workshop that’s—“

“Actually, Sir, if I may — you are currently locked out of the workshop under a protocol amended by Colonel Rhodes, titled ‘Go The Fuck To Bed, Tony’, active after 60 consecutive hours of no sleep.” 

Tony seriously considers installing a new AI for a moment. This one has obviously learned too much.

“Is _everyone_ a traitor around here? You _never_ list the parameters for a protocol.” 

He looks over at Steve, who has to be giving him the world’s most unimpressed look, arms folded over his chest. 

“I mean—uh— _60 hours?_ Wow, that is _totally_ news to me. Time flies when you’re having fun, huh?” 

“You know what’s really fun? Sleeping. Sleeping is fun.” 

“Cap, you can’t just go around spreading blatant misinformation like that. Nat, do you think sleeping is fun?” 

“No,” she says immediately, and Tony gives a triumphant smile. 

“See?” 

“She’s only taking your side because I put her and Sam to bed at 8 instead of 9 while I was babysitting,” Steve insists.

Nat just smirks. “Some things can never be forgiven.” 

Tony shakes his head, jumping up onto the counter beside her. “ _8_ instead of _9?_ That’s horrible. Where are your morals, Cap?”

“See? Tony understands.” 

Steve looks between the two of them for a moment, before shaking his head and approaching the counter.

“I can’t believe I’m being ganged up on.”

“ _I_ think sleep is fun, Cap,” Clint pipes up.

“Thank you, Clint.” 

Tony can’t help but swing his legs a little, delighted to find that his feet are nowhere near touching the floor. He stops almost immediately when the expression on Steve’s face softens, realizing with a jolt that their conversation about sleep has somehow managed to make his little side flare up. 

“I’ll carry you if I have to,” Steve tells him.

Natasha‘s lips twitch up into a smile. “Careful, Tony. He really will.” 

Suddenly, Tony can’t think of anything he wants more. Not that Steve has to know that.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure if you _can_ carry me, Cap.” 

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up at that. He clearly wasn’t expecting Tony to even _chance_ being carried, and he’s almost prepared to brush it off with a joke when Steve moves forward and lifts him off the counter, arms secured under his thighs. Tony squawks, arms flying up to wrap around his neck. 

“Goodnight!” Nat calls after him, infinitely amused, as Steve begins to make his way toward the elevator.

“Sleep tight!” Clint adds.

Tony gives them a token eye roll before resting his head on Steve’s shoulder.

It’s... _nice_. More than nice. Steve’s footfalls sway him from side to side a little, his shirt is soft against Tony’s cheek, and his arms have him in a secure hold. He can feel his mind growing a little fuzzy, and for once, he has no immediate urge to fight it, or tamp it down. 

He only raises his head once the elevator doors shut behind them, blinking owlishly up at Steve, who hikes him up his waist a bit. 

“Still with me?” 

Tony nods. “I already knew you could carry me. I’ve seen you benchpress a car.” 

“I know,” Steve says, smile soft. 

“Good,” he says around a yawn, rubbing at his eyes.

The elevator doors open, revealing Tony’s penthouse. The sky is a deep blue outside, covered almost entirely by a blanket of dark, rolling clouds. Heavy rain drums against the roof, splashes down the windows, and Tony snuggles further into Steve as he moves forward, making a beeline for Tony’s bedroom. 

He shifts Tony onto one hip so that he can open the door, supporting him almost effortlessly with one hand. 

Tony’s a little reluctant to detach himself, but he allows Steve to lay him down on the bed, sprawled out amongst soft blankets and throw pillows. 

“Are you...” Steve hesitates, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “are you feeling little?” 

He can’t even muster up embarrassment at the question.

“‘S fine,” he says quickly, “you don’t need to do anything. It usually lets up after a bit.” 

Steve huffs, shaking his head and sitting down on the bed, right by Tony’s side. “If I’m gonna be your caregiver it’s kind of my job to, you know, _give care._ ” 

Tony tries to think up a witty response, he really does, but his brain isn’t exactly helping him out at the moment. Traitor. 

“You need sleep,” he tells Steve, rolling over onto his side to face the wall. 

“So...you don’t want Cap Bear?” 

He’s slipped into the patented Steve Rogers gentle voice™, the bastard.

But... _Cap Bear_...

He rolls over onto his back without much conscious input from his brain, looking up at Steve with big eyes. Maybe, _possibly_ , he sort of wants to spend the _tiniest_ amount of time being little. The absolute tiniest. That’s allowed right? 

Clearly sensing his interest, Steve smiles. “He’s probably lonely all by himself, huh? I’m sure he could do with a hug, no matter how big or little you’re feeling.” 

The static filling his brain begins to settle down, leaving a gentle feeling of contentment in its wake. Some of the rigidity in his muscles begins to melt away, and he sinks further down into the blankets. 

Tony nods in agreement, and Steve ruffles his hair a bit, clearly pleased.

“Can you tell me where Cap Bear is, Tony?”

“‘S in there,” he tells him, pointing towards his walk-in wardrobe. 

“Alright, I’ll go get him, okay?“

Tony nods faintly, watching as Steve disappears into the wardrobe. He hears clothes hangers being moved, squeaking against metal. He focuses on the pattering rain instead, which seems to have gotten louder in the short time since they’d arrived at Tony’s penthouse. Maybe it’ll last all night. He hopes it will. Rain is nice. 

Footsteps pad along the carpet, and the bed dips a little as Steve sits down again. Tony looks over and gasps. 

“Cap Bear!” 

“That’s right,” Steve says, smiling as he walks the bear up Tony’s stomach, “he told me that he’s missed your hugs a whole lot.” 

Tony squirms a little and giggles, holding his arms out. Steve walks the bear right into his outstretched arms, and Tony wraps him up in a tight hug. He rests his chin atop the Cap Bear’s head, peering up at Steve. 

“S’eepy?” 

“Am I sleepy?” Steve asks, pointing to himself, and Tony nods. 

“I’m a little bit sleepy,” he confirms, “which is why we’re gonna get you into something comfy, then we can both get some sleep, huh?” 

Tony thinks for a moment, before pointing at his Cap Bear. 

Steve smiles. “Cap Bear’s gonna get some sleep, too.“

Tony points to himself next, and at that Steve laughs, not unkindly. 

“I don’t know, bunny, are you feeling sleepy?” 

He shakes his head.

“Still not sleepy, huh? Just tired?” 

“Tired,” Tony confirms, smiling a little. 

Steve mirrors his smile, standing up from the bed. He glances about for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip as he thinks, before giving a resolute nod. Tony watches as he moves forward, running gentle fingers through his hair. 

“I think I’m gonna have to very quickly go get a few supplies now, Tony, but I’ll be right back, okay? Cap Bear’s gonna stay right here with you.” 

He turns towards the door, and Tony feels panic begin to rise up inside his throat, a heavy knot forming in his stomach that seems to tighten with each step Steve takes. His eyes well up with tears, his breaths come out jagged, and he rapidly shakes his head, holding out his arms.

“No, no go,” he protests, which has Steve freezing and crossing the room faster than he can blink, scooping him and the Cap Bear up into his arms. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Tony,” he cooes, pressing a kiss to his temple, “I’m sorry, it’s okay, I’m right here, I’m not leaving.” 

Tony sniffles, bottom lip trembling as Steve uses his thumb to catch the tears that trace their way down his cheeks, wiping them away. 

“Sowwy,” he says, swallowing, trying hard to stop the tears from coming.

Steve’s eyebrows furrow for a moment, before smoothing out again. “You don’t have to be sorry, Tony.” 

He does. He _does_. But he doesn’t want to do anything else wrong, so he nods anyway. 

“‘Kay.” 

Steve examines him for a moment, eyes flitting over his face. He looks up toward the ceiling.

“JARVIS, is there anyone on the communal floor?” 

“Not currently, Captain Rogers. Agents Barton and Romanoff have retired to their respective floors,” he intones. 

“Do I have clearance to lock down the floor after we enter?” 

“Indeed. I will ensure that no one enters while you and young Sir are inside.” 

Steve seems surprised by this development, but he nods anyway, hiking Tony up his hip. 

“Thanks, JARVIS.” 

“Of course, Captain Rogers.” 

Steve presses a kiss to Tony’s cheek, and seems to catch sight of the very faint smile that results, because he begins peppering them all over Tony’s face. Soon enough, Tony is squirming happily in his arms, eyes crinkled and sparkling with laughter.

“No more ‘isses,” he giggles, pawing clumsily at Steve’s face. 

Steve lets up, smile resembling more of a beam now. “Sorry, Bunny. How about we go get some warm milk now, huh? To help you sleep?” 

Tony nods. “Paci?” 

“We’ll get you a paci too,” he confirms.

There’s a lingering pause, then Tony leans forward to very briefly brush his lips against Steve’s cheek.

Steve’s eyes are practically brimming with fondness as he pulls away. “Thank you, Tony.” 

As promised, JARVIS locks down the communal floor the moment he enters, one hand under Tony’s thigh, supporting him, and the other holding onto a pair of sweatpants and a shirt. There’s a quick detour to the bathroom, where Steve carefully helps him out of his jeans and boxers, distracting Tony with his Cap Bear while he fastens on a diaper in their place and applies a bit of diaper cream. 

Once he’s in sweatpants and a soft shirt they make their way to the kitchen, where he lowers Tony down onto the counter, offering him a reassuring smile as he sets about finding a pacifier. 

“We’ve got some options here, Tony,” he says, reaching up to pull a container down from the top shelf of the cabinet. “We’ve got...let’s see, we’ve got a green one, a red one, a Black Widow one, a bumble bee one, a panda one...”

Steve holds them up to show him, looking alarmed when he notices that Tony is beginning to tear up, eyes wide and shiny. He takes in a shaky, wet breath, and that’s enough for Steve to abandon the pacifiers and approach the counter, gently cupping the side of Tony’s face. 

“Tony? Can you tell me what’s wrong, or show me?” 

“Don’,” Tony hiccups, “don’ know.” 

Steve looks puzzled for a beat or two, before realization seems to dawn on him. “You don’t know which pacifier to choose?” 

He nods, sniffling, and Steve makes a sympathetic noise, brushing his hair away from his forehead. 

“That’s okay, hey, shh, shh, that’s okay, how about I help you, hm?” 

Tony wipes at his tears, before nodding again, and Steve reaches over to retrieve two pacifiers, never losing contact with him. 

He holds them up so Tony can see. “How about just between these two? We have the Black Widow one here, and the panda one.” 

His gasping breaths taper off as he examines them both, before giving Steve a tiny smile, dark lashes still clumped together with tears. 

“Nat?” 

Steve easily returns his smile. “Yeah, that’s Nat, bunny. Black Widow. You want that one?”

“Nat,” he confirms.

“I’ll just wash it for you, alright? Then you can have the Nat one.” 

Tony watches as Steve busies himself with washing the pacifier, swinging his legs back and forth. He bangs up against the cupboard by accident, flinching violently when Steve turns to him. 

“Sowwy. I’m sowwy. I’m—sowwy.” 

Steve stills, taking in the way Tony is leaning away from him with a vague look of horror that he’s quick to chase away with a tight smile. 

“It’s okay, Tony. Only an accident. Just be careful not to swing too hard, or you might hurt your feet.” 

Tony nods, hesitantly reaching out to accept the pacifier Steve offers him. 

“‘Ank you,” he whispers. 

“No problem, bunny. Let’s get you some warm milk and honey now, huh? Then we can get you ready for bed. Still feeling tired?” 

Tony exaggerates a yawn in response, and Steve’s smile looks a little more genuine as he crosses the kitchen and begins to rummage through a cabinet. 

He slips the pacifier into his mouth, tightening his hold on the Cap Bear. He makes sure not to swing his legs too much. He’s lucky Steve wasn’t angry at him before.

It’s very hard to hide his delight when Steve presents him with a sippy cup that has a robot on it. Tony immediately takes out his pacifier, before hesitating and looking up at Steve, who has his own glass of milk. 

“How about we get you a clip?” he says, setting his glass down and crossing briefly over into the living room, opening the door to a closet. 

He re-emerges with a red pacifier clip, but stills as he goes to attach it to Tony’s shirt.

“Can I attach the clip for you?” he asks.

Tony nods, and he makes quick work of attaching the clip on both ends, so his pacifier dangles. He pauses after that too, and Tony makes a little distressed noise, raising his arms to be picked up. 

Steve exhales, relieved, and smiles as he hoists Tony up onto his hip and takes his own glass. 

They sit together in the living space, looking out at Manhattan as rain continues to pour. The gentle pitter-patter of it gradually becomes a series of wet thuds, and a shock of white lightning soon follows that cuts jagged zig-zags into the inky night sky. Tony startles at the loud crack of thunder that booms through the silence, burrowing into Steve’s side. Steve wraps an arm around him and draws him impossibly close, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. 

“It’s alright, Tony. Just thunder.” 

He doesn’t even register that shivers are racking through him until Steve runs a hand through his hair and asks him if he’s cold. When Tony nods, Steve leans away for a moment, and before a noise of protest can even leave his throat Steve is holding up a dark blue sweater with a white star in the center of it. 

“Want some help putting this on?” 

Tony can barely keep the smile off his face as he nods, hurriedly setting his empty sippy cup down on the coffee table and slipping his pacifier back into his mouth. He raises his arms, and Steve helps him wriggle into the sweater. Now that he doesn’t have his sippy cup to think about, he hesitates, before crawling onto Steve’s lap. Steve, for his part, just smiles and opens his arms, pulling him in towards his chest. 

The last thing he remembers is being surrounded by warmth, and softness, and _Steve_. It’s been a long, _long_ time since he’s felt so safe. 

~ 

New York — or, at least, the version of New York Steve woke up in — is big, and loud, and bright, and _too much._ It’s flashy, and impersonal, and sometimes he can barely recognize it, can’t look past all of the stony expressions that pass him by, the neon signs that damn near blind him at night, to see any semblance of the place where he grew up. So it surprises him, really, that Tony can somehow manage to make him feel at home while they’re out and about, on a casual walk or a dinner outing, or even inside his workshop, the very _epitome_ of cutting edge technology, everything this future has to offer. That Sam can distract him from how damn _overwhelmed_ he feels sometimes by exchanging quips with him during their morning jogs, by offering him a place to stay when the heart of Manhattan gets a little too much. That Nat can take one look at him and realize when he’s struggling, when he needs a spontaneous hug, or when he needs people to tread lightly around him, about his past, even if he won’t ever admit it. 

And the thing is, that’s enough for him to get by. Having the Avengers, having a group of people he can trust, it’s far, _far_ more than he anticipated having upon waking up to a whole new world. Having Bucky on top of that is even better, makes a version of New York that seems too loud feel almost normal. His memories are patchy, sure, and neither of them are those kids from a small neighborhood in Brooklyn anymore, but he’s still _there_ , against all odds, despite the horrors of Hydra conditioning. 

So yes, Steve Rogers has an entire _slew_ of issues, but he manages, really. It’s just that...there’s still this echoing emptiness at the back of his mind almost constantly, this painstaking urge to care, to nurture, to look after a little of his own. To do more with his life than punch out Hydra agents, and deal with extraterrestrial and interdimensional threats beyond even his wildest _dreams_ in the forties.

Before the serum he could barely keep _himself_ going, let alone a little — always out of breath, always aching, always vulnerable to illness, always wondering if _this_ will be the thing to do him in. He has freedom now though, a body with very few limits, a body that still feels foreign to him at times if he’s being honest, even after all these years.

 _Nothing_ about carrying Tony, about putting Tony to bed, about caring for Tony, feels foreign to him. Instead, it fills him with this all-consuming warmth, a deep-rooted sense of satisfaction, and for once he doesn’t have to grapple with whether he’s doing the right thing, whether he’ll ever truly be able carve out a place for himself in this new world, because he’s _needed_ , and that’s enough, _more_ than enough. 

So, when Steve awakens the following morning and wanders out of the spare bedroom he’d crashed in, he’s just the slightest bit disappointed to see his blue jumper folded up neatly on the couch, Tony’s bed covers strewn about the place and decidedly empty, no lingering warmth. 

The thunderstorm has come and gone at the very least, making way for a canvas of blue, rays of sunshine falling onto the couch in sparkling strips. Steve wonders for a moment if he’s overstaying his welcome, whether Tony wants him gone before he’s willing to return to the penthouse, and his stomach sinks. He knows that Tony is still struggling with shame outside of his headspace, but they’re still _friends_ , and Steve isn’t sure if he can play the avoidance game again. 

He will, of course, if that’s what Tony needs, but it still _hurts_.

He considers heading down to his floor when the distinct sound of Iron Man’s flight stabilizers roar through the silence. Steve moves toward the window, hand pressed up against the glass and neck craning to see the distant figure of Iron Man shooting through the air. It’s not long before he’s touching down on the balcony with a loud, metallic thud, boots clomping against polished stone as he moves forward, the armor disassembling around him. 

The faceplate flicks up, and Steve is pleased to note that Tony doesn’t seem surprised to see him. JARVIS is tasked with storing the armor while Tony enters the penthouse, breaths coming out a little heavy, sending strands of hair away from his forehead. All the usual signs of piloting the armor are there — the angry red pressure marks at his temples, at the base of his neck, creases where there must be occasional pinches along his arms. Steve is struck by the sudden urge to try and soothe some of them, brush Tony’s hair away from his forehead, but he manages to get a handle on it by the time Tony reaches the bar, brown eyes curious as they examine him. 

“Late morning, Cap?” 

Steve shrugs. “Gotta have ‘em sometimes.” 

Tony reaches up for a bottle that Steve can’t make out, as well as a small shot glass. He wants to say something, to protest, but he’s well aware it won’t be received well.

He settles on a casual comment. 

“Bit early for shots, isn’t it?” 

“It’s Kahlúa,” says Tony, by way of explanation, “only what, like—“ he checks the label “20 percent alcohol? Perfectly acceptable to have at 10 am.”

Steve arches an eyebrow. Tony isn’t physically avoiding him, but he honestly can’t decide if that’s any better than this very clear deflecting. The thing is, he _gets_ it — he has a bit of a history with turning to punching bags and late night training sessions, but sometimes he wishes that they _weren’t_ a group of deeply traumatized superheroes, so maybe they could talk like adults. 

_One day,_ he thinks. _One day._

Tony softens a little, rounding the bar with his glass of Kahlúa and approaching Steve to place a steady hand on his shoulder. 

“You okay? You look a little...pained. _Tense_ too, by the way, Jesus, maybe we’ll have to look into getting you in for a session with my masseuse. Works total wonders, I assure you.”

Steve swallows. “I’m good, really. I was just, you know...” 

Tony’s eyes are roaming his face, scrutinizing, and Steve feels a little nervous about having all that attention on him. It’s a rare thing when it comes to Tony Stark — having his full attention. It’s not him being intentionally absent, of course — Steve has long figured out that Tony’s brain is always racing, always calculating, pulling him away from the present. 

“Do you think maybe we should talk a little more about this whole caregiver thing? Like...boundaries, and, and concerns, and getting equipment, that sort of thing.” 

Tony lowers his hand as though he’s been burned. His brown eyes dart away for a moment, and Steve is almost instantly hit with the overwhelming urge to comfort him somehow, to get a smile back on that face. 

“Boundaries. Concerns. Equipment,” he parrots, as if testing the words out on his tongue. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Why not. Boundaries are good. _Love_ boundaries. Where would we be without boundaries?” 

He walks over to the bar, swapping out his shot glass with a larger glass, filling it up about halfway with Kahlúa. Steve doesn’t protest, settling down on the couch and observing him for just a moment. He looks well-rested, surprisingly enough, but even then, Steve wants nothing more than to swaddle him in blankets so he can continue to make up for those 60 hours. 

God. _60 hours._ Thank _god_ for Rhodes and that protocol, or it’d have been longer. 

Tony takes a seat in the middle of the couch, close to Steve but nowhere near touching, which surprises him just a little. He brings his legs up too, arms wrapped around his knees, which seems to be a favorite position of his ever since the test. Steve feels a sudden surge of affection in his chest that’s _very_ hard to tamp down, but he manages it. 

He’s still sipping on his Kahlúa, but he looks unbelievably small, with the way his big brown eyes peer up at Steve. 

“Uh, are you feeling, y’know, big enough for this conversation?” 

“Hey, this is a _very_ big position, thank you. It’s _comfortable_. And I have a place to rest my glass, so it’s practical too. Innovation never stops.” 

“Right,” Steve says, amused. “Of course.” 

He knows that certain habits are soothing to littles even while they’re firmly in their big headspace from the research he’d done with JARVIS’ aid — classifications were known in the forties, of course, but there was nowhere near the wealth of knowledge that exists today — so he tries not to worry too much. It’s practically impossible where Tony is concerned, but he _tries._

“So, I guess I’ll start,” he says, and Tony snorts. 

“This feels like a board meeting. I feel like you’re about to shoot down one of my ideas and tell me to think of the _profit_ , _Tony, the profit._ ”

“Well, we can get a round table too if you want, seal the deal. A projector. I’ll even make a — what was it you were going on about the other day? A PowerPoint?” 

Tony visibly shudders. “Nevermind. I’ll be good. Please state your concerns, I am _dying_ to hear them.” 

Steve smiles a little and takes a deep breath, mostly to brace himself. 

“Okay. I’ve just—I’ve noticed that in headspace, whenever you think you’ve done something wrong, you seem — scared. Of me, that is. You seem stressed when you’re given a choice about something...I’m pretty sure you were on the verge of tears about the fact that you were even crying in the first place. I guess I’m just—worried.” 

Tony took a long sip of his Kahlúa as Steve started to speak, which, in hindsight, he probably should’ve warned against, because he very nearly spits it out all over the place. 

He lowers his legs down to the ground and turns to Steve, arm propped up on the back of the couch, eyes wide and swimming with amusement. “I’m sorry, am I mishearing you right now or are you trying to tell me that I’m _too well behaved?_ ” 

“That’s not what I—“ 

“No, really, this a first for me, I feel like I should commemorate it or something. The day Captain America told me that I’m _too scared_ of doing the wrong thing. Man, I wish Howard were here right now.” 

_Ah,_ Steve thinks, _there it is._ He’d suspected something along those lines, of course, but it still hurt him a little to hear. He remembers Howard pretty vividly — part of the reason he’d been so eager to meet Tony for the first time — and he doesn’t particularly like the idea of what he became in his later years. 

“So it _is_ him.” 

Tony still has a faint smile as he brings the Kahlúa to his lips. “Hm?” he asks absently, voice muffled slightly by the glass, “What’s him?” 

“Howard is the reason you’re so scared of doing anything wrong.” 

The smile vanishes so quickly from Tony’s face that Steve can’t help but feel guilty. He wants to reach out, to soothe him somehow, but he’s really not sure if he’ll be welcome, so he refrains. 

Tony opens his mouth before promptly closing it again. “Yeah, listen, if we’re gonna talk about Howard I need to switch to whiskey. In fact, dropping this conversation right now would be preferable.“

Steve tries to soften his voice a little. “We can do that, if you like. You don’t have to go to any depths, but I just wanna know what I’m dealing with here. How I can make things easier for you.” 

Tony stares for a moment, unblinking, before getting up and making his way over to the bar, standing up on his very tip-toes to grab a bottle of whiskey that’s stored on one of the higher shelves. Steve doesn’t outwardly coo at the sight, but it’s a close thing. He tries to shake himself out of caregiver mode a little as he watches Tony pour himself a tumbler of honeyed whiskey, only slightly concerned when he downs about a third of it at once with a wince. 

“Man, it's been a while. Believe it or not,” he says, rounding the bar. Steve stays silent, but he tries to keep his expression as open as possible. 

“You guys seem to have this _idea_ of sorts, that because Howard misclassified me he was _abusive_ or something. Not really the case. He just didn’t like annoying kids, he liked press-ready kids who could sit there all docile and look cute without crying or kicking up a fuss,” he takes another sip, Steve notes that he seems pretty reluctant to do so this time, “I was a sensitive kid. He didn’t like that very much, so before he shipped me off to boarding school to toughen me up, he’d, y’know, rough me up a little, get a bit violent, and I mean, who hasn’t, right? Nothing too scary, mostly while he was drunk. He wanted me to a be very specific way, never much one for toys, or, useless inventions, or,” Tony swallows, “or encouragement. More of a negative reinforcement type guy. Tell him he’s a pathetic failure so he’ll spend his entire life trying to prove he’s not. That sort of fun stuff. Which I guess is why I might seem a little...shy, sometimes. Or jumpy. When I’m...well, you know.” 

Steve softens when Tony’s gaze finally meets his. His eyes are the slightest bit glazed over, which isn’t entirely unusual, but Steve knows that the place his mind has wandered to isn’t particularly pleasant. He’s immensely glad when Tony sets his mostly-full tumbler down on the counter and collapses onto the couch, a little closer to Steve than he was previously. 

“Anyway! That’s enough touchy-feely stuff to last me a lifetime. I’m not good at this whole talking business. Well, I can _talk_ perfectly fine, just not about — _this_.”

Steve hesitates, but doesn’t reply directly. “Do you remember what you told me, during my first week here, when I was embarrassed about needing the heater running all the time because I didn’t like the cold?” 

Tony’s eyes dart away. “Vaguely.” 

Steve smiles. “You said it’s okay to be affected by the things that happen to us. You said it’s inevitable, even, given what a dysfunctional group of people we are. And you were right. I didn’t fully see it at the time, because you sort of told it as a joke—“

“I do have a knack for that—“

“—But you were. It was okay then, and it’s okay now, with this. No matter how you look at it, it’s really shitty. The way he treated you.” 

Steve doesn’t add that he would very much like to invent time travel and knock some sense into Howard, but the thought is there. 

Tony visibly swallows, and Steve almost expects him to stand up from the couch and start acting all unaffected, turn to his seemingly endless repertoire of flippant quips to lighten the mood again, make the discomfort of opening up a little more bearable to deal with. 

Instead, he just looks over at him, his shoulders slumped with resignation, his hands clenched in his lap, and he looks so damn _vulnerable_ that just about every protective caregiver instinct Steve has ever had swells up inside him at once. 

Steve opens his arms for a hug, because he knows that Tony is the type of person to show affection through being tactile, and he has to do _something._

Tony huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “God. You’re killing me, Cap.” 

He falls right into the hug, and Steve feels a distinct sense of contentment wash over him as he wraps his arms around Tony, pulling him close, encompassing him almost entirely. Tony’s face is buried in his chest, and he takes a certain amount of comfort in the way his back rises and falls, steady with each breath he takes. Steve picks up the scent of warm metal, a remnant from piloting the armor, and he moves closer still, resting his chin gently on Tony’s head. 

Tony’s smiling as he pulls away, a delicate upturn of lips, which is a positive sign. 

“You’re too good. Someone’s gonna take advantage of that one day if you’re not careful.” 

“Will you?” Steve asks. 

“Never.” 

“Then I’m not worried.” 

Tony‘s smile takes on a mischievous edge. “Unless, of course, I’m trying to swindle my way into staying up past bedtime.” 

Steve can’t help but be a little taken aback by the very blatant joke about his headspace. Once it registers, a broad smile spreads itself across his face. 

“Not gonna happen.”

“You say that now, Cap. You say that now.” 

Steve opens his mouth to suggest that they should move onto the boundaries portion of this chat when the alarm to assemble blares, startling him the tiniest (okay, maybe not the _tiniest_ ) amount. Tony jumps up from the couch, looking triumphant. 

“Sorry, Cap, looks like we’ll have to table this discussion for another time.” 

Steve notes with a hint of amusement that he doesn’t look sorry in the slightest.

He supposes progress is progress. 

Tony heads towards the balcony, tapping his watch and bringing it up to his mouth. “Hey Romanoff, I know you _despise_ mornings and everything, but is there any chance you could refrain from talking my ear off about it this time? ...What do you _mean_ I’m far worse than you? You walked into a glass door the other day. _Several_ glass doors, really, I have no idea how you managed it...Sam, not only are you a morning person, you’re a morning person who goes for _6 am jogs_ , so you are hereby prohibited from giving any input on this matter...Alright _fine,_ consider this discussion tabled. What are we dealing with here? ...Automatons _again?_ Is it too much to ask for a little variety these days?” 

Steve snorts, fondness surging up inside him as he watches Tony step out onto the balcony. He makes his way to the elevator, asking JARVIS to give him a briefing on these supposed automatons. 

Some things won’t change, and he’s perfectly okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: tony downplays howard's abuse because he's self-deprecating like that, his views on what occurred are heavily influenced by his perception of himself and by no means reflect my views.
> 
> these chapters were very tony & steve centric but the other avengers (esp nat and sam i Love them) should be featuring more in future, esp as tony and steve figure things out :)
> 
> (( p.s. can u tell i think 'bunny' is a very cute term of endearment ?? )) 
> 
> (( p.p.s if ppl are interested in seeing more of steve's pov let me know, i debated back and forth with it a bit ))


	5. solid gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i can't think of any major trigger warnings for this chapter but if you think there should be one please let me know! enjoy the chapter <3

Tony doesn’t get the time to _breathe_ , let alone sit down for more than two seconds the following week.

Monday seems to stretch on endlessly, restless hours crawling by as he sits in a stuffy office with Steve at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters and deals with all of the unfortunate bureaucracy that seems to be part and parcel when it comes to registering _anything_ with S.H.I.E.L.D., much less a caregiver. Steve, of course, listens to all of the professional drivel with an earnestness that never fails to surprise Tony, the same earnestness that used to grate at his nerves when they first met. He almost feels for the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who’ve been tasked with ensuring that Tony’s ‘needs’ will be met, and that he’ll be accommodated for on missions and even outside of missions, but if he’s reminded one more time that weekly drops are _essential to maintaining focus and clarity on the field,_ he might just call the suit to him and blow this damn popsicle stand, consequences aside. 

He doesn’t, mostly out of sheer spite, and _possibly_ because Steve is still sitting there with those wide, earnest eyes, taking in everything like Tony might die from negligence if he misses a single detail. It’s sort of sweet. And concerning. But mostly sweet. He knows that Steve will actually be able to remember everything too, what with that serum-enhanced eidetic memory of his. It’s not a very comforting thought, but at least it means that Tony can listen with half an ear, tapping away at his phone screen under the desk with practiced ease, eyes barely straying from where they’re trained ahead at the agents. 

“With all that said, do either of you have any questions for us?”

Tony opens his mouth to give them a very definitive _no_ , because he’s honest to god starting to lose some feeling in his legs and he needs some coffee about yesterday, but Steve pipes up with a _‘yeah, actually, do you think it’s best if—‘_ , and Tony slumps back down in his seat, resolutely beyond the point of caring whether he looks like death warmed over. 

Then, _finally_ , about twenty minutes later, when the paperwork is all filled out and the meeting comes to a definitive close, Tony offers the agents a sharp smile and ‘thank you very much, gentlemen’, before hightailing it to the nearest café, Steve at his heels. 

Neither of them speak until they reach a crossing, mostly because Tony’s stamina seems to magically increase tenfold when he’s on the hunt for coffee, and even Steve is having just the slightest bit of trouble keeping up as they weave in and out of the swarms of people. 

“So I’m sure you were paying very close attention to that,” he says dryly.

Tony presses the button to cross the street again, just to make sure, and offers him a playful smile. “I’m wounded that you’d think so little of me, Captain. Of _course_ I was paying attention.” 

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s good, seeing as it was pretty important and all.”

“You know, you throw around the word ‘important’ a whole lot. I think you need to ease up a little, relax every once in a while. When’s the last time you went to a spa? Wait, don’t answer that, next time I get a day off I’m flying you somewhere.” 

“Anyone ever tell you you’re _very_ good at changing the subject?”

“Only about ten times within the past four days,” he says mildly, reaching into his pocket to slide a pair of sunglasses onto his face. “That baseball cap’s not gonna do you much good by the way, not when I’m with you, very much undisguised.”

“That’s the point,” Steve tells him, smiling slightly, “you can draw all the attention away from me.”

Tony gives him an affronted look. “Well alright then. Good to know where we stand. Leave me to the masses, why not?” 

The traffic lights change, and Tony joins the crowds in crossing the street, letting out a little involuntary sigh of relief when he catches glimpse of the café that awaits him on the other side.

“We’re still talking about this,” Steve insists once they reach the sidewalk.

Tony turns with a bright grin, taking both of his hands and tugging him forward. 

“God, you are _always_ on, aren’t you? Remember that long conversation we had on Thursday? And then that _other_ one we had on Saturday? Yeah, I’m still drained from those. No more serious conversations until at _least_ Wednesday, maybe I can pen you in then.”

“Tomorrow?” he tries to bargain, as he’s tugged into the bustling corner café.

“Wednesday or no dice, big guy.” 

When Steve pulls out the puppy eyes, he snorts and says, “oh, come on. We’ve done the boundaries song and dance, _and_ we talked about equipment—”

“Which we still haven’t ordered by the way—”

“ _—now_ I am going to have a coffee and catch up on some emails, and _you_ are going to sit there opposite me and look pretty for a while.” 

Steve lets out a long-suffering sigh, directing his gaze toward the flowery board that displays all the café’s menu items. He seems to find a drink that he likes, because he sighs again, this time in defeat.

“Alright. Wednesday.”

They end up on the same side of a corner booth with soft, worn leather seats. Tony has a tablet in his hands, tapping out responses to a few business emails, and Steve has a casual arm slung over his shoulders, casually affectionate in a way that warms Tony from the inside out. They chat all the while, so really, things don’t go _exactly_ to plan, but he doesn’t care all that much. It’s a nice reminder that can they still have this — their friendship — even with Steve being his caregiver. 

Plus, he likes the feeling of having Steve’s arm around him, which he almost wants to blame on the way his little side relishes in feeling small, but really, he just likes being tactile with his friends, likes the easy comfort of it. Rhodey can certainly attest to that. He’s pretty sure a good portion of the press is still convinced that they’re married or something, but choosing to keep their relationship under wraps. To be fair, if the press were to be believed about _anything_ , he’d have ten spouses by now and at _least_ twenty secret lovers. That’s just sort of how they roll.

It’s from that point forth his week gets _really_ hectic — he’s rudely awoken at about 6 am on Tuesday by a call from Pepper, who tells him that there’s an emergency over at the New Zealand branch of Stark Industries. That, naturally, devolves into a week-long business trip while he focuses on putting out some fires and making sure Steve doesn’t think it’s all an elaborate attempt to get out of that conversation they were supposed to have on Wednesday. He _has_ been known to fabricate taller tales to get out of less, after all. 

By the time he arrives back at the tower on Saturday he’s lost pretty much all his steam, running on fumes alone. The exhaustion that tugs at his eyelids, protests his every movement, has reached levels Tony wasn’t even aware it was _capable_ of reaching. Every muscle in his body seems to ache, seems to be giving more and more into gravity as he walks. His eyes are barely tracking, taking in his surroundings at a dragged pace. His thoughts are submerged in a hazy fog, slow, lethargic, to the point where he’s struggling to differentiate between feeling tired and feeling like he’s going to drop into his headspace at any moment. 

Some of the fog clears up when he arrives at his floor, dumping his suitcase and approaching the kitchen for coffee. He still has a few loose ends to tie up, but he’s been actively resisting headspace for the entirety of the past two days, fighting tooth and nail to keep himself grounded. He went as far as stripping his hotel bed of anything too soft and hiding it away in a linen cupboard, because even _that_ would’ve had his big headspace slipping right through his fingers, as easy as water. Of course, that’s not the story he’s been feeding to Steve, which he’ll admit he still feels a bit guilty about. Pepper was already worried, though, hurrying business meetings along with increasingly firm and terse tones, checking in on him when time permitted it. _Her_ version of worried, essentially, which he’s become quite adept at picking up on. Tony couldn’t stomach the idea of getting Steve needlessly worked up about him feeling little halfway across the world on top of that.

He only realizes that he’s been staring off into space when he feels a hand gently pry his away from the coffee mug he’d somehow gotten a hold of, overflowing now with dark liquid. Dark liquid? Coffee. That’s it. Coffee. 

The afternoon sun pours inside, warming the countertops of his kitchen, warming _him_ , and his mind feels pleasantly fuzzy as he looks up at the intruder. Oh. The intruder is Steve. Steve, whose blue eyes are brimming with concern, who’s wearing a Falcon graphic tee, who’s currently caressing his cheek with his thumb, almost feather-light. He hums, leaning into the touch, as Steve runs his other hand along the back of his neck, along his jaw, before settling it on his forehead, eyebrows furrowed. 

_Checking for a temperature_ , his mind offers helpfully. _But why would he have a temperature?_

“Hey. Wasn’t sure if you’d be back tonight. You seem tired.”

“Mmm. Tired’s an understatement. But I got—” the rest of his sentence is swallowed up by a yawn. He doesn’t bother to open his eyes afterward. “I got a few more things to tie up.”

“Mm, I’m sure you do,” says Steve, voice low, “you remember what we talked about last week? With those code reds?” 

A lazy smile curls at the corner of Tony’s mouth. “I do, funnily enough. Why did we call it that again? Seems a little drastic.” 

“To give it some sense of urgency, I guess,” says Steve, seemingly unable to fight back a smile of his own. “Anyway, I’m calling one of those right now, sorry to say.” 

Tony wants to pout, but he’s so unbelievably _tired_ , and he can feel himself leaning more and more of his weight into Steve, who, for his part, just steadies him with an arm around his waist. 

“Alright. Guess I can live with that.” 

Shock flickers briefly over Steve’s features, gone as soon as it appears. “Okay. I think we should get some food into you before we get you to bed, so I’m gonna need you to be honest with me, okay?” 

Tony swallows. He’s leaning towards his big headspace at the moment, so it’s just the slightest bit jarring to hear Steve talking to him like this, like he’s a _kid_. That nebulous feeling from earlier is gradually starting to return however, simmering at the back of his brain, and all he can manage is a quiet ‘okay.’ 

Steve looks pleased by the answer at least, which has a shy smile forming on his lips before he can help it, a fuzzy warmth settling inside his chest. 

“Good, Tony.” He pats his back, smiling encouragingly. “Are you feeling big enough to have some dinner down on the communal floor with the others? Or would it be better if I brought some up to this floor, so we can have it here?” 

Mortifyingly enough, he can feel a _blush_ spreading across his face at those words. _Man_ , he hates being between headspaces. 

Steve must take his hesitation as uncertainty, which, to be fair, it sort of is, because he rubs a few soothing circles into the small of his back. 

“It’s okay if you’re feeling too little. We can have some dinner up here, then we can get you to bed.” 

“Yeah. I—think that’d be good,” he says. 

“Alright, we can do that. Next question, have you had any alcohol over the past twelve hours or so?” 

It’s a logical question, even if it immediately makes him want to go on the defensive — one of the things they’d agreed upon was that alcohol and little headspace don’t exactly mix, so it’d be best to avoid any heavy drinking before a drop. It had taken a bit for him to warm up to the idea, but he’s had experience with dropping after a weekend of binge-drinking, and it’s not a misadventure he particularly wants to repeat. So, while a part of him still rebels _fiercely_ at the idea of Steve being able to stop him from drinking if they’ve planned for a drop that day, he can sort of rationalize it. He still has a decent measure of control over _when_ exactly he wants to drop — there’s just that inconvenient restraint now, that it has to be at least once or twice a week. 

“Still with me?” Steve asks gently. 

“Mm. I haven’t had any today.” 

“Good. That’s good, Tony. Why don’t you go choose some nice jammies to change into and I’ll go get some takeaway from the communal floor?” 

Tony thinks he might die. Is that possible? Death by someone referring to your pajamas as ‘ _jammies’_ while you’re not feeling entirely little yet? 

“Okay,” he says, because he doesn’t think protesting will get him anywhere, and it would be half-hearted at best anyway.

Steve’s smile grows fond as he drops a kiss to his hair. “You’re cute.” 

“Still not little,” he reminds him, taking a step back. 

“Still cute,” Steve insists, grinning. 

Tony grumbles a little on his way to the bedroom, but it’s mostly put-upon, and more for the sake of drawing attention away from his ridiculous blush. _Seriously_ , why does his face feel like it’s on fire all of a sudden? Not cool whatsoever. 

He decides on his Captain America pajama pants and a shirt that Steve had picked up for him the previous week (much to his initial chagrin) that features a robot and a stupid science pun that would probably make Bruce groan and avoid him at all costs, just so he wouldn’t have to be subjected to it. The thought makes him smile. 

They haven’t exactly looked into any more little clothes yet, but he knows it’s on Steve’s list. Yeah, that’s right, _list_. It surprised Tony too, even though it probably shouldn’t have. It’s a very Captain Earnest move. 

Just the _thought_ of the onesies that Steve had sent him links for while he’d been in New Zealand, brightly colored and almost unbearably soft-looking, has him aching for pajamas that aren’t so... _adult._ Maybe now that he’s back home, they can look into those onesies again, so he can pretend to find them all childish and obnoxious and then proceed to stockpile them. 

He looks around at his room, feeling oddly bereft. It’s a decidedly _adult_ space, there are no two ways about it, all minimalist and sleek, darker tones dominating the walls and the floor and the ceiling. Does he _deserve_ a kiddie room like Nat and Sam have? Probably not. But does he _want one?_

Tony shudders, and fidgets with the hem of his shirt to distract himself from that train of thought. Steve still isn’t back, and he sort of wants to change, but he knows Steve will just have to take his pajama pants off again if he wants to put him in a diaper. 

He’s put himself in diapers before, though, _way_ more times than he’s willing to admit. He’s somewhat of an expert at this rate. Maybe he could make Steve’s life a little easier for him. 

Tony nods resolutely, heading for the bathroom, clothes in hand. Steve’s first call had been to stock both his bathroom cupboards and Tony’s bathroom cupboards with diapers and pull-ups made specifically for littles, which, Tony would admit, freaked him out a little at first, but it was a pretty smart move in hindsight. 

He examines the package for the overnight diapers carefully before extracting one, and it takes a little bit of creative maneuvering, but he manages, sprinkling a little baby powder in the process, because while he hasn’t experienced it before, he gets the feeling that diaper rash is a _bitch_. 

By the time Steve steps out of the elevator, a few precariously balanced containers of takeaway in one hand, Tony is curled up on the couch with the softest throw pillow in his clutches, thumb rubbing absently at his bottom lip. His expression softens immediately, and he sets the containers down on the table before rounding the couch. 

“Hey, baby. Where’s Cap Bear?” he asks, and Tony gasps, because where _is_ Cap Bear? 

“‘M—‘m not sure,” he says, eyebrows furrowing. 

It’s then that he notices Steve has an arm behind his back, and his confused expression deepens for a moment before clearing. 

“...Cap bear?” he says, tentatively, and Steve’s smile widens a little. 

“Where could he be?” he asks, as he turns to look around the room, and Tony giggles when he notices the bear Steve’s holding behind his back. 

“There!” he says, pointing, and Steve whirls back around, tipping his head to the side in confusion. 

“Where?” 

“‘S ‘ehind you!” 

Steve furrows his eyebrows, turning to look at the space behind him. “But I don’t see him, Tony! Where could he be?” 

Tony giggles and slides down the couch, standing up on slightly wobbly feet and wrapping his arms around Steve so that he can’t turn, hands grabbing onto the Cap Bear. He brings it around to show Steve, hugging it to his chest and taking hold of one of the bear’s arms to make him wave. 

Steve gasps, scooping Tony up into his arms and spinning him just a little, smiling when the giggling immediately escalates into delighted laughter. 

“You found him! Now he can have dinner with us!” 

“‘S hung’y?” he asks, and Steve nods, giving the bear a kiss on the head as he makes his way over to the kitchen. 

“Cap Bear’s very hungry,” he confirms. “But before we have dinner we gotta wash our hands, huh?” 

Tony nods, albeit slightly reluctantly at the thought of having to put Cap Bear down. Steve moves him onto one hip, and confusion clouds his expression for a moment when his hand shifts to support Tony’s upper thighs. 

“Are you wearing a diaper, Tony?” 

He nods again, tentatively this time, and Steve gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You don’t have to do that on your own, bunny, you can let me take care of that, okay?” 

Tony hesitates, because he’s just the slightest bit perplexed — he thought Steve would be _happy_ that he could do that on his own, so he didn’t have to deal with it — but he gives him a quiet ‘okay’, burrowing his face into his neck. 

Steve gives his thigh a pat as they approach the kitchen sink. “It’s okay, Tony, I’m not mad. Just for next time, maybe?” 

_Next time._ Tony can do that. 

They both wash their hands, and Steve stops him from washing Cap Bear’s hands too, telling him with a smile that his fur will get all wet. Tony doesn’t see why that’s a bad thing, because _his_ hands got wet too, and he just dried them, but he concedes. 

As they near the table, Tony starts squirming to be put down, and Steve obliges him with a chuckle. “Alright, squirmy worm.” 

He carefully places Cap Bear on one of the chairs, frowning when he realizes that his head barely reaches the tabletop. He looks around for a moment, before approaching the couch and grabbing an empty discarded box, placing it down on the chair and propping Cap Bear upright. This time, he’s level with the table, and that satisfies Tony, so he sits down in the chair next to him. 

Steve gives his hair an affectionate ruffle before sitting down on his other side. “Cap Bear’s good to go?” 

Tony nods. “‘S got seat now.” 

“He does,” Steve agrees, smiling as he reaches over to fill both of their plates. “That’s very nice of you, bunny. Making sure he’s included.” 

Tony gives him a shy smile, squirming a little in his seat. 

Dinner goes off without a hitch, save for the fried rice he accidentally drops on the ground towards the end of it. 

He gasps and looks down with a small ‘oh no’, eyes widened in panic. Before he can slide out of his chair, Steve is standing up from the table, pulling a small packet of tissues from his pocket. 

“It’s okay, Tony, only an accident. I drop my food sometimes too, same with some of the other Avengers.”

“...Steve too?” Tony asks, watching as he uses a tissue to pick the rice up. 

“That’s right. Accidents happen sometimes. Just gotta remember to keep your fork above your plate when you’re eating, okay? So they happen less.” 

Tony nods tentatively, and makes a point of keeping his fork above his plate for the rest of dinner. Steve gives him a proud smile as he takes their plates to the kitchen, which makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside all over again. 

Later, Tony is tucked under his blankets with Cap Bear by his side, a pacifier in his mouth and a soft lullaby from JARVIS filling the room. He turns toward Steve, who’s standing right where the darkness obscures everything from view, leafing through some of the books on Tony’s shelf. 

He returns to the bed after a few minutes, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. An idea must hit him, because his expression clears right up. 

“How about a bedtime story about your Aunt Peggy?” he asks. 

“Aun’ Peggy?” 

“Yeah, Aunt Peggy,” he confirms, gently brushing his hair away from his forehead, “she did a lot of very cool things.” 

Tony nods. “Aun’ Peggy stowy p’ease?” 

Steve seems heartened by that response, because he settles into bed with a smile. “Of course, bunny.” 

Tony wiggles until he’s pressed up against his side, snuffling into his shoulder and letting out a happy hum around his pacifier when strong arms draw him closer. 

Aunt Peggy is very brave, he realizes, as he listens to Steve’s story, eyes gradually falling closed. 

Tony decides, right before sleep finally pulls him under, that he wants to be just like her one day.

~ 

Oftentimes, waking up for Tony is a cause for panic — jolting awake from a nightmare, or to the blaring sound of an assembly alarm, or to an alarm from JARVIS, informing him of all the meetings he has that day, and all of the projects he has lined up to complete. 

By contrast, waking the following morning is a slow affair, a gradual ascent towards consciousness. The light pitter-patter of rain is the first noticeable sound to filter through, followed by the general bustle of Manhattan below, muffled by his window. He sighs, rolling over, and just lays there for a few moments, basking in the stillness, in the soft blankets that cocoon him. 

It’s when he realizes that something is digging into his stomach that he cracks an eye open, met immediately by the sight of Steve, who’s sat upright against the headboard with his sketchbook in his lap. 

“You better be getting my good side, Cap,” he says, voice rough with sleep, as he shifts so that he can grab the pesky pacifier that’s pressing into his skin and set it aside. 

Steve’s tentative smile morphs into a grin, now that he knows he’s dealing with Tony in his big headspace. 

“How do you know I’m even drawing you?” 

“Why _wouldn’t_ you be drawing me? I’m masterpiece-material.” 

Steve looks down at his sketchbook for a moment, before shrugging, as if to say ‘he’s got a point.’ 

“I don’t think you have too many bad sides.” 

“Mm. Sounds biased.”

“You think I’m biased?” Steve asks with a playful grin, “and why’s that?”

“Caregivers are always biased. You’ve all got a bit of a rep.” 

“So what I’m hearing is that I can’t appreciate my bunny without being biased? That it?”

Tony does _not_ squeak in indignance, thank you very much, and even if he does it’s a very _manly_ squeak, charming and intimidating and definitely, certifiably _manly_. 

“Don’t take this personal or anything, Cap, but I _will_ kick you out of my bed.”

Steve has this put-upon innocent expression on his face, one that Tony is sure would let him get away with at least several crimes. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Was it the part about you being my bunny?”

Another manly squeak. Tony doesn’t think he’s blushed outside of headspace for a good _decade_ or so, because he’s lost virtually any concept of shame that isn’t related to his little side, but if Steve keeps calling him his fucking _bunny—_

“Alright. That’s it. I will no longer stand for this. You caregivers are all the same, and I’m gonna expose Captain America for the _evil_ person that he is, then they’ll see,” he says, moving to stand up from the bed, but before he can, Steve is wrapping an arm around his torso and gently tugging him back down.

He lets out an undignified squawk as he lands, glaring up at Steve, whose eyes are sparkling with amusement. “Can you expose me for my evil ways _after_ we talk?” 

Tony sighs and sits upright, back against the headboard. “Only because I’m comfortable.” 

“Okay,” Steve says, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he sets his sketchbook aside. “So. I’ve been thinking—“

“Always a foreboding sign—“

“—I’ve been _thinking_ ,” he says again, raising his eyebrows, “about what those agents said last week about having another potential caregiver to fall back on, in case of emergencies, or involuntary drops. We have Phil, of course, but he’s pretty tied up in S.H.I.E.L.D. business a lot of the time, so I was wondering if Bucky might be an option you’d consider?” 

_That_ gives Tony pause. He’s thought about it of course, how he’d eventually go about revealing his classification to the team, whether he wants it to be a gradual process or a ‘rip the proverbial band-aid off’ type deal. He supposes Bucky could provide him with a place to start. They’re friends, and they get along perfectly fine, given that Tony doesn’t put either Sam or Nat in harms way because, again, overprotective mother-hen. He visits the workshop a fair amount because he’s a certified science nerd, which was a _very_ thrilling discovery for Tony indeed. Sometimes he’ll engage with Tony and his projects while he’s down there, but sometimes he just likes to sit on the couch and watch, not minding in the slightest when his existence is more or less forgotten about. He’s mostly there for the cool holograms. Tony doesn’t mind. 

The point is, they aren’t _super_ close, which means there isn’t a whole lot of pressure behind the reveal, and he knows Bucky probably won’t judge him. All he has to do from that point is magically get over his pesky deep-seated fear of others seeing him vulnerable, as well as the various _other_ hang-ups he has that generally stem from entering his little headspace around people. 

No big deal. 

Thanks, dad. 

“First off, why do I feel like everyone is on a first-name basis with Coulson but me? Second off...that works for me, I’d say. If it works for him too, obviously. I’m a bit...you know, _young_. Clingy. Shy. Prone to crying. That sort of fun stuff.” 

A frown forms on Steve’s face, ever the earnest puppy. “Buck wouldn’t mind any of that, especially not if I talk to him beforehand. That stuff’s normal for your age group, and the, well, _past_ you’ve had.”

“Right. Past,” he says, almost absently, “maybe leave that part out of it.”

“Whatever you want,” Steve assures him. “But you’re okay, otherwise? With maybe meeting him while you’re in headspace? I’d be there, and if it’s too much I’ll get him outta there.” 

Tony hesitates, directing his gaze toward the window, where raindrops cling to the glass. “If it’s just him, then yeah. Not sure if I’m ready for the whole _playdate_ type deal yet.”

Telling the avengers his classification is one thing, but being around them while in headspace is _another_ thing entirely.

“Just him,” Steve confirms, “we’ll only ever do what you’re comfortable with.” 

The funny thing is, Tony _believes_ him. The thought is comforting enough that he feels himself relax, shoulders slumping against the headboard. He hadn’t realized how much tension had seeped into his muscles until he let it all go.

“Okay. If I’m in headspace, and he’s around then...you’ve got the go ahead, Cap.” 

“Alright. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Steve smiles after a moment, playfully bumping Tony’s shoulder with his own. “And don’t worry. One wrong move and I’ll kick the punk out myself.”

“Won’t that be a sight,” Tony muses, as he stands up from the bed and stretches his arms out above his head. 

The diaper is starting to feel pretty uncomfortable, so while Steve picks up where he left off with his sketch, Tony rummages around for some acceptable clothes to wear and makes for the bathroom. 

Before he can even get a hand on the doorknob, Steve asks, “do you—uh—need a hand with anything?” 

He turns, and his expression must say everything, because Steve huffs a laugh and raises his hands in mock surrender. 

“Just thought I should check.”

Tony turns back towards the door, mostly to hide the smile on his face. 

~ 

He makes smoothies for the both of them, and he makes a point of telling Steve that they definitely do _not_ have any motor oil in them whatsoever. Steve gives him a look that’s somewhere between bewildered and concerned, but Tony just smiles beatifically over the rim of his glass and tells him not worry his pretty little head about it. 

He gets the feeling that if he tells Steve about that one time DUM-E almost poisoned him with motor oil in his smoothie, he’ll give him a heart attack. 

Tony has every intention of using his meeting-free day to get ahead on some projects down in the workshop, but he somehow ends up getting roped into online shopping for little equipment by Steve. He has no idea how it happened, honest. One moment he was headed for the elevator and the next he was curled up on the couch with a tablet in his hands, showing Steve a website he’d found with a roguish grin. 

“No.”

“What?”

“Tony you’re _not_ getting a solid gold cot.”

Tony leans back against the couch and continues to scroll through the website, interest piqued. “I’m sorry, Cap, did you just say something? Because I swear all I heard was ‘Tony, I _don’t_ want you to be the classiest toddler on the block’—“

“Toddlers don’t _need_ to be classy—“

“What kind of logic even is that? Toddlers don’t _need_ to be classy. I don’t _‘need’_ coffee but guess what ends up in my mug about four times a day?”

“Are you _really_ telling me that you’re gonna have the capacity to appreciate a solid gold cot while you’re in headspace?”

“ _It’s not for_ —Okay, okay, fine. Scratch the solid gold cot. Whatever. I’m flexible. What about this one? It’s only _plated_ with gold, so it’s less expensive.”

Steve’s eyes flick down to the price on the screen and some of the color drains from his face. “Why are people making _gold-plated_ cots? Is this some kind of 21st-century trend I’m not aware of?”

“Cap, these days people are _eating_ gold. Covering chocolate in it and everything.”

Steve looks utterly perplexed. Seemingly unsure of how to even _begin_ to respond to that, he opts to just move on, turning his laptop toward Tony. “Look. This one’s nice. Made from sustainable New Zealand pine wood. Good reviews. Sturdy. _Not_ over one hundred thousand dollars.”

It _does_ look nice, Tony can’t help but think, sleek but not overtly modern, a nice dark, walnut color. _Espresso_ , according to the website, which Tony can absolutely get behind. He supposes he can settle for something a little more modest, for Steve’s sake more than anything. He gets the feeling that if he actually buys that solid gold cot he really _will_ give Steve a heart attack.

“Yeah, alright. Guess that one serves its purpose,” he says absently, scrolling on his tablet some more. “Say, would you just _look_ at these custom-made diamond-encrusted pacifiers? Now _that_ is something I definitely nee—“

“Okay, I’m taking the tablet away,” Steve declares, as he plucks it from his hands and sets it aside. “We’re gonna look at my laptop now.”

Tony definitely does _not_ pout.

Damn forties-era supersoldiers and their damn modest ways.

With JARVIS’ assistance, Tony manages to survive the online shopping spree with his dignity more or less in tact. Eventually, he develops a strategy of just trying _very_ hard not to think about the fact that he’s currently buying little equipment. If denial was a game, he’d be a fucking seasoned player, so it’s not too much trouble.

There’s still this whisper at the back of his mind, though, reminding him constantly with each item purchased that he doesn’t _deserve_ any of it, that even the pacifier he used to rely on was too much, that he hasn’t yet earned any sort of comfort let alone actual time in his headspace. He thinks that he’ll never quite be free of it, that it’ll always return to him and overwhelm him on quiet nights when he’s left alone with nothing but his thoughts, in dark bathroom stalls when he brings himself down from the verge of a panic attack, and even in lighter moments, when he’s laughing with his friends, or over a stupid maneuver DUM-E pulled in the workshop. 

Sometimes, Steve will smile at him though, bright and playful, or he’ll regard him with this warm understanding, this quiet earnestness, like Tony is something worthwhile, and for a moment all of that darkness is kept at bay, it ebbs away like a low tide and Tony can actually _breathe_ for a moment or two.

It’s the very same guilt that’s forming a tight knot in his chest now, icy, damn near _suffocating_ , as the reality hits him.

He’s really doing this. _They’re_ really doing this.

“Tony? You okay?"

He lurches away from the hand Steve sets on his arm without meaning to, heart pounding so hard that he can hear the echo of it in his ears, like it might just burst right out of his chest. 

“Right as rain, Cap,” he says, even when the way he stumbles to his feet says otherwise, “we’re done here, right? I think we’re done here. I got some, some stuff in the workshop to do. High-priority, extremely urgent. That sort of thing.” 

“Sir,” JARVIS pipes up, sounding almost hesitant, “Before you go, Agent Romanoff and Mr.Wilson are requesting that I ask you whether you’ll be free to accompany them at any point during the day.”

Ah, shit. How do those two always know how to tug at every single one of his heartstrings? 

“Tony—“

“Looks like those projects are no longer high priority after all, would you look at that,” says Tony, as he walks over to a full-length mirror and attempts to gather his wits. 

His tired reflection peers back at him, but he looks surprisingly steady, clear-eyed even. He smiles, and it’s a sharp, bitter thing, jagged around the edges, but it’s a _smile_. 

Tony sees Steve approach in the mirror, and he knows he’s being given an out, a chance to dash away toward the elevator, but something keeps him rooted firmly to the spot. His stomach churns with nerves as he watches Steve’s reflection draw nearer, until he can feel his presence behind him, feel the body heat he radiates.

“You gonna clue me in on what's going on?” he asks, voice soft. 

He lets out a breath, finds himself swaying backward ever so slightly, and Steve is there, wrapping an arm around him, hooking his chin over Tony’s shoulder.

“How do you know I’m not just tired?”

“Because you’re already deflecting.” 

Tony huffs. “Feeling a little psychoanalyzed right now.”

“Aaand, still deflecting.”

He aims a glare at Steve in the mirror, who just smiles into his shoulder and gives a half-shrug, unrepentant. 

“It’s nothing,”Tony says, after a beat, “just feeling a bit, y’know, out of sorts. Happens sometimes.”

“You seemed fine earlier.”

“Yeah, well, it comes and goes. You know how that stuff is.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is soft again, and it has this underlying tenderness that makes Tony glad they’re not facing each other, so he doesn’t have to face it head-on. 

His eyes meet Tony’s in the mirror. “I meant what I said at the S.H.I.E.L.D. medbay. If you can’t do this for yourself, then do it for other people.” He pauses. “Do it for me. At least until you can do it for yourself.”

He wants to look away more than anything, because even in the mirror Steve’s eyes are _bright_ , so ridiculously bright, and why do they always feel like they’re looking straight through him, like they _know_ him?

“You have a pretty good knack for saying the right thing, you know that? Where’d they teach you that, anyway? Those sanctimonious speeches on the field have to come from somewhere, and I refuse to believe you picked it up in the army. I get the feeling they weren’t so focused on training you in the art of impromptu speeches and wise words back then.” 

Steve smiles again, like he heard the ‘thank you’ that was buried somewhere in those words. He gives Tony a brief squeeze, before stepping away.

“They come from experience,” he says, “after a while of trying to motivate people you get a feel for what works and what doesn’t.” 

“What doesn’t work, then?”

“On people in general, or on you? Because those are two very different answers.”

Tony grins, and feels the everpresent tightness in his chest start to ease. “Don’t feel too bad, Cap. I’m pretty hard to sway. _Jaded_ , if you will.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Steve says, amused. He hesitates, before asking, “are you still feeling okay to pay Sam and Nat a visit?”

“I’ll never forgive myself if I leave them hanging,” Tony says, by way of answer, before pausing. “Bucky won’t forgive me either, now that I think about it, and he’s got that scary resting murder face going on.”

Steve snorts. “He’s a big old softie. Don’t let him tell you any different.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” says Tony, arching an eyebrow, as they head over toward the elevator. 

Steve gets this very specific brand of goofy grin on his face, and Tony knows exactly what’s about to happen. 

“I’ll melt your shield down and use it to give DUM-E a shiny new upgrade,” he warns, pointing an accusatory finger.

Steve lets out a big sigh, totally unperturbed by the threat. “I just can’t _help_ being a softie, Tony. Not when you’re my precious little—”

“JARVIS! Sometime this week, please?”

“Of course, sir,” he says, and there’s a _definite_ undercurrent of amusement there that Tony wholeheartedly resents.

Make the AI sassy, they said. 

“What’s the hurry, sweetheart?” Steve asks, tilting his head a little in faux-confusion, and okay yeah, Tony is _definitely_ blushing now, what the fuck. 

“You’re _evil_ ,” he stresses, but he reluctantly allows Steve to pull him in and drop a quick kiss to his hair, because hey, maybe he doesn’t hate it as much as he pretends to. Sue him.

“Is that a blush?” Steve teases.

“The fate of your shield is still up in the air, Captain. I’d choose your next words carefully.” 

Steve sighs, quite obviously put-upon. “I guess I _do_ kinda need that.”

When the elevator doors open to the communal floor, they’re pretty much ambushed right away, which is how Tony ends up with Nat in his arms, and Steve ends up with Sam in his. 

“Uncle Tony! We made pictures for you and Uncle Steve. Iron Cat helped by giving us the right pencils. She’s very smart.” 

Tony gasps. “You made pictures for us? Well isn’t that nice. How about we go take a look then, huh?” 

Nat nods vigorously, and Tony adjusts his grip on her slightly as they make their way to the living space, settling down on the couch in front of the coffee table. It’s still dreary outside, not a hint of sky visible beneath the all-consuming grey, but JARVIS seems to have set the lights to be a little warmer than usual to compensate. Bucky and Coulson sit on the opposite couch, Coulson preoccupied with a tablet and Bucky watching on in faint amusement. 

“This one’s yours,” Nat says, reaching over to grab an A3 size sheet of paper. She settles back against Tony’s chest, who can barely keep his fond smile in check as he wraps an arm around her waist. 

“See, here’s DUM-E, I drew the lines and Sam colored in, he’s got his claw right here, so he can pick things up. Daddy showed me a picture so I could remember what he looks like.”

Tony nods. “That’s a very good drawing of him, kiddo, I’m sure if you showed it to him he’d _love_ it.”

“Can Sam and I see him again? So we can show him?” Nat asks, looking back with wide eyes, and Tony laughs. 

“ _Well_...I _guess_ if your Daddy and Uncle Bucky agree to let me take you down there...you’d have to be _extra_ good though, there’s a lot of stuff down there that’s only for adults.”

“I’ll be good,” Nat says instantly, before reaching over and giving Sam a tap on the shoulder. “Sam, will you be good if Uncle Tony takes us down to see DUM-E?”

“Yes!” he says, wide-eyed, as he squirms out of Steve’s lap and stands up. “Please Daddy?”

Bucky looks between them both, before turning to Tony, who has a playful grin on his face, bordering on challenging, then to Steve, who gives him a shrug. 

“Alright. But you gotta be good, okay? No touchin’ anything that Uncle Tony hasn’t told you you can touch.”

They both nod, practically vibrating with their excitement as they gather up their drawings and search for shoes to wear. Iron Cat approaches Nat with a meow, and she lets out a gasp, tugging on Tony’s sleeve.

“Has Iron Cat met DUM-E yet, Uncle Tony?”

Tony thinks for a moment before shaking his head, and the answer honestly surprises him a little too. Iron Cat has pretty much stuck to the communal floor, Sam’s floor or Nat’s floor. Clearly, she’s imprinted on them or something, which _shouldn’t_ be as sweet as it is.

“Can we bring her down with us? Please?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Iron Cat, you gonna be good?” he asks, and when he receives a high-pitched mechanical meow in return, almost a squeak, he grins. “Yeah, alright. Guess she’s overdue to meet the ‘bot family anyway.” 

Steve looks a little hesitant, like he isn’t sure whether he’s welcome, so Tony turns to him with raised eyebrows. “You coming with or what, Cap?” 

“Come on, Uncle Steve, you gotta see DUM-E too!” Sam insists, Nat nodding along in agreement. 

That seems to be all the encouragement he needs, because he stands up from the couch with a smile. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Yes!” Nat says, as she takes one of Tony’s hands. Sam takes the other, and soon enough they’re headed down to the workshop, Sam and Nat continuing to show them both various features of the drawings they made. Tony must do a pretty bad job of keeping the longing out of his expression, because Steve looks between him and the drawings, almost thoughtfully, which has him swallowing nervously and asking Sam for another explanation of the wings he drew, that Nat colored in with black and various shades of red. Sam obliges him with an excited smile, which is cute enough to a) have his heart tripping all over itself and b) to make him forget about all the stupid things his brain seems adamant on bringing to the forefront of his attention. 

DUM-E, of course, is absolutely _thrilled_ by the drawing, and he makes it very much known with a slew of excited beeping and rapid spins. Once Tony gives them both a bit of a run down on things they are definitively _not_ allowed to touch, and things they are allowed to touch with permission, he ends up settling on the couch with Steve while they play a game with DUM-E and Iron Cat that he can’t even _begin_ to understand. Steve looks to be in the same boat, as he watches the game unfold with furrowed eyebrows and a mildly bemused expression. 

“I can never figure out what the rules are,” he says, and Steve shoots him a teasing smile.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a genius?” 

“Hey, it’s not _my_ fault they keep changing. Kids are complicated. Way beyond my level of expertise,” he insists.

“Wait, are they _talking_ to DUM-E?” Steve asks suddenly, which has Tony turning back toward the kids in an instant. 

Nat and Sam appear to be asking various questions, and laughing in delight at some of the beeps DUM-E gives them in return. Even _Iron Cat_ seems to be partaking in the conversation. 

“Oh my god. They’ve developed a way of communicating with him. What the hell. Steve. _Steve_ , are you seeing this?”

“I _was_ the one that pointed it out,” he answers, amused.

“Kids are scary. I feel like it’s world domination next. How are we gonna fight a bunch of kids, Cap?”

“They’ll win,” Steve says, without hesitation. 

“Shit.”

Steve gives him a reproachful look. Tony grins. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. What was it you say instead? _Sugar?_ ”

“That was _one_ time.”

“And I’ll never forget it.” 

They somehow end up getting roped into an intricate game of fetch, involving not only DUM-E, but U and Butterfingers and Iron Cat too. By the time they sit back down, about half an hour later, drawings in hand, they’re both honestly a little tired. 

“They’re still playing,” Tony says, something like disbelief coloring his voice. “It’s a damn _marvel_. How much can you actually _do_ with a non-verbal robot that can barely make a smoothie?”

Steve looks down at his phone and snorts. “Yeah, Bucky’s asking if we died down here. That was about ten minutes ago so I wouldn’t be surprised if he comes down soon.” He hesitates, expression looking a little sheepish, before asking, “by the way, do I still have the go ahead to talk to him about...you know. Things?”

“Things,” Tony parrots, amused, “yeah, you still got the green light to talk about _things_ with him, Cap.”

Steve goes to respond, but the elevator doors open with a timing that’s almost _poetic_. 

“Oh good,” Coulson says mildly, “they’re alive.” 

“Sorry, Buck,” Steve says, offering them both a grin, “I got your text but I was a little preoccupied.” 

“I can see that. That couch looks _very_ comfortable.”

“I’ll have you know that we just spent about half an hour on our feet, thank you very much,” Tony says.

Bucky gives him a wry look as he enters the workshop. “Sounds like a real hardship.”

Sam and Nat are only drawn away from their game when Bucky actually reaches him, giving DUM-E’s claw a fond pat.

“You guys havin’ fun down here?”

They nod vigorously, and launch into a joint explanation of the game they’re currently playing. Bucky looks utterly lost about half way through, which is pretty vindicating for Steve and Tony, who exchange an amused glance. 

“Were they good?” Coulson asks, while the rambling continues, and Tony nods.

“Very good. No accidental explosions. 10/10, would bring down here again.”

“The fact that your standard is currently _‘no accidental explosions’_ is a little concerning,” Coulson muses. 

Tony just waves him off. “It’s fine. Perfectly safe. Haven’t had one of them in at _least_ three weeks.”

Coulson looks between them for a moment, and Tony’s definitely not imagining the scrutinizing glint in his eye. “What about you guys? How’s it going on that front?”

His stomach lurches at those words. He’s almost glad that Steve speaks up before he can a word out, because he _knows_ it would’ve been either pointless babbling or a bad joke of some kind, wholly unrelated to the question.

“It’s good. We’re—figuring things out.” 

Coulson almost looks like he wants to press for more details, but Sam and Nat’s explanation seems to be coming to an end, so he just purses his lips and nods.

“That’s good.” 

Tony manages to coax both Sam and Nat out of the workshop by promising them that they’ll get to come back down sometime soon, and he joins them all for lunch on the communal floor, which was, quite decidedly, _not_ what he had planned for the day, but it’s hard to bring himself to care. 

Steve pulls Bucky aside afterward, with one final glance of confirmation toward Tony, who nods almost imperceptibly. He must catch it regardless, because he offers him a tiny smile and says something to Bucky, who nods, and allows himself to be lead off with one brief glance backward.

He settles down beside Sam and Nat and accepts the lego pieces that are offered to him. Helping them build a giant lego fortress to protect their action figures against Mr.Fuzzle, at the very least, keeps his mind off how frighteningly _real_ this suddenly all seems. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dot-pointing the next chapter rn and Can I Just Say...protective steve is my jam!!
> 
> i debated splitting this chapter in half but it all fits pretty nicely together, so, i hope the 8k chapter length is okay. i honestly have no idea how it happened. 
> 
> anyways i am gonna go pass out now but if you liked the chapter kudos and/or comments are very much appreciated! :) <33


	6. explosive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, sorry for the late (ish) update! i set about writing one chapter and ended up with 19k words (I don't know either) so i'll be splitting it into three smaller chapters and posting the first two now, then the third maybe tomorrow or the day after that, so I'm not bombarding people lol
> 
> no trigger warnings that I can think of, but there is a call to assemble with canon-typical violence 
> 
> as always, let me know if you think i should add a trigger warning for anything, be it for this chapter or any chapter! <33

The following few days are...normal. Or about as normal as life can get when you’re a superhero living with a bunch of elite spies, assassins, forties-era war heroes, and a man who can transform into a giant green rage monster at the drop of a hat. It’s great, really. 

Tony would be lying if he said he wasn’t keeping an eye on Bucky more often than not, almost involuntarily tracking his movements when they happen to be in the same room, gaze lingering stubbornly even when he tries to pry it away. It’s _ever so slightly_ starting to border on excessive. He didn’t really know what he’d expected after his talk with Steve a few days ago. Steve had assured him that Bucky had taken it well, considerable alarm that Tony had managed to hide his classification for so long aside, and that he’d be amenable to looking after him if a so-called _emergency_ were to arise. It wasn’t necessarily that he expected Bucky to waltz right up to him and have a casual chat with him about it, because he wasn’t particularly _open_ about his feelings, or jumping at any opportunities to share deep, meaningful conversations with team members that weren’t Sam or Steve. 

If there was one thing he _hadn’t_ expected, however, it was _this_. 

“Barnes,” he greets, trying hard to keep the bemusement out of his tone, “this is, what, the second time you’ve tried to ambush me in the kitchen with tea? You feeling okay? Because I don’t think I recall literally _ever_ drinking black tea in the tower, or _any_ tea for that matter, I know your memories are a little scrambled and all but—“

“Have you tried it?”

Tony just stares for a moment, expression blank with disbelief. It’s 8 am, he’s running on empty, despite getting what he deemed an actually decent amount of sleep the previous night, and he’s not quite all there yet, so the fact that Bucky is choosing this moment to act all weird is just plain unfair. It takes a moment or two to recalibrate, get his higher brain functions in order.

“Yes,” he says slowly, carefully side-stepping the man, “it’s fine. But right now, terminator, I need coffee, so I’m not dead on my feet when I arrive at my first meeting.” 

“It has caffeine,” Bucky says, like its a selling point, when they both know damn well that it has nowhere _near_ the amount of caffeine that Tony’s ridiculously overpriced, imported coffee offers. 

Okay. This is weird. Right? Yeah. Totally weird. Tony is perfectly content with the casual, semi-antagonistic friendship they share, with their sharp back-and-forths and their time spent down in the workshop together, either existing in the same space or animatedly discussing Tony’s projects. Now, Bucky is...encouraging him to drink black tea instead of coffee? Does he even know who he’s talking to here?

“Yeah, listen, I know you and Cap have been on a real nutrition documentary kick lately, _still_ haven’t forgotten about that cauliflower pizza base by the way, but it’s my body and if I want to shave a few years off my life by consuming gratuitous amounts of coffee, I damn well will.”

This seems to give Bucky pause. He stares at Tony for a moment, who can feel a smile twitching on his face despite himself, because, _okay_ , seriously, he has a world-class assassin with a resting murder face that once caused a Hydra agent to brain himself on a brick wall while attempting to flee in front of him, trying to make him drink black tea in favor of coffee, and it’s just the _slightest_ bit funny. Plus, he’s never had much sense of self-preservation, anyway. 

“Okay, fine. What time’s your meeting?”

“Interested in my life all of a sudden, Buckybear? It’s at 9 am, if you must know.” 

Bucky shrugs, plucking a plum up from the fruit bowl and settling down on a stool by the kitchen island. He sips at the aforementioned rejected black tea. “Just curious.” His expression relaxes a little, amusement glimmering to life in his eyes, “Stevie tell you he’s filming more of those PSA’s for schools today?”

Tony very nearly crows with delight. “There’s _more?_ J, are you hearing this?”

“Indeed, sir,” he confirms, “I will, of course, ensure that both you and Sargent Barnes have immediate access to the footage.” 

“It’s like a gift that keeps on giving,” says Tony, as he jumps up onto the counter, “here I was, thinking the peak of my existence would forever be Cap sitting down in a chair and saying _‘so, you got detention.’_ Now there’s gonna be a sequel?"

“It’s still his ringtone on my phone,” Bucky admits, at ease now that he’s in familiar territory — making fun of his friend, “but that doesn’t say a whole lot ‘cause I only just recently figured out how the hell to change the dam—uh, the _thing_.” 

Tony’s eyebrows raise at the correction, because Bucky swears like a sailor on a good day, but he manages to brush it off amidst the pure glee flooding his system. 

About ten minutes later, once Bucky has ventured back up to his floor, Tony enters the communal living room in search of his tablet. He finds Steve taking a seat on the couch, and he has to spend a moment or two schooling his features, setting his mouth into a suppressed line of laughter. Steve glances up from the S.H.I.E.L.D. report on his lap, smile taking on a slightly confused edge at how chipper Tony must undoubtedly seem at this ungodly hour. 

His thoughts stray to that black tea from earlier, and he makes his way over to the couch to collapse down beside Steve, his tablet-search-and-rescue mission promptly forgotten. 

“Hey,” Steve greets, almost absently, as his eyes skim over the index of the report. 

“Be honest with me here, Cap,” he says, because regular greetings are overrated anyway, “has your terminator buddy marked me down as his next target? Am I being lulled into a false sense of security? Am I on his shit-list or his kill-list or whatever assassins these days like to call it?” 

Steve, utterly used to the dramatics, doesn’t so much as blink an eye. He just hums, “what gives you that idea?”

“JARVIS?”

“Sargent Barnes’ smiles in Sir’s directions have seen an increase of 50% over the past three days, and he has offered Sir tea in place of his regular coffee twice now. He also offered Sir a blanket whilst he was working on the communal floor couch. I have, of course, attempted to inform Sir that these are generally _friendly_ patterns of behavior—“

Tony holds a hand up. “Don’t even wanna hear it, J.” He turns to Steve, giving him an emphatic nod to signify that his point has been successfully made. 

Steve huffs an amused laugh, finally looking up from the report. “I thought it was obvious that Buck has a soft spot for Littles.”

Tony doesn’t even try to tamp down on the disbelief that’s undoubtedly written all over his face, because just about the _last_ thing he could’ve foreseen was Bucky going all caregiver on him.

“ _That’s_ what this is about? He’s trying to _coddle_ me?

“Not coddle!” Steve amends hurriedly, “just…”

He receives a thoroughly unimpressed look for his efforts. “Coddle. Right. I am _so_ gonna kick his ass.”

“He’d probably let you. He doesn’t hit Littles.”

“Oh my fucking god.” 

Steve levels him with a disapproving look that contains next to no real heat, and Tony snorts because apparently there’s a line and the word ‘ass’ doesn’t cross it but the word ‘fuck’ sure does. Maybe this requires some experimentation. Some scientific inquiry. He stows the thought away for later. 

“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” Steve tells him, as he scrawls something into the margins of the report in angry red letters, “he’s just...protective of Littles. Always has been, even back in the day. You know how he is with Sam and Natasha.” 

“They don’t let him get away with it, though, not in big headspace.”

“You’re right,” Steve says, amused, “doesn’t exactly stop him though. Just makes him more subtle about it.”

Tony snorts. “Yeah, about as subtle as a brick to the face.”

The signs were all there, now that he really thinks about it, right down to that stupidly soft blanket Bucky had offered him the previous day, clearly having rummaged through a linen cupboard or two to find it. Apparently, the man is a chasm of unbounded caregiver instincts, and he doesn’t know if that’s just who he is or if ruthlessly repressing those instincts during his time as Hydra’s prisoner has somehow resulted in them practically spilling out all over the place now that he’s settled into life at the tower. The thought of that simultaneously warms him and devastates him, because he knows a thing or two about suppressing classification instincts, even if it had been self-imposed for him, rather than the result of being a decades-long prisoner of war. A warm knot of sympathy twists in his chest, and _dammit_ , he’s supposed to be ardently planning out the various ways in which he can kick this man’s ass for thinking he needs coddling, not pondering how best to make everyone who was ever involved in his torture pay dearly, even if he has to experiment with a little resurrection to make it happen. Though he supposes plotting Hydra’s downfall is never a bad way to spend one’s time. Retribution and all that. 

He’s snapped back into awareness by the sound of fingers tapping rapidly at a phonescreen, and he glances over to find that the culprit is Steve. He catches Bucky’s name at the top of the screen, which prompts him to lean over, entirely unashamed in his reading over Steve’s shoulder.

_Buck. Just talk to him, you’re freaking him out._

_Does he want that? Me talking to him?_

_Think he’d prefer it to tea._

_It has less caffeine._

_The fact that you think you can get him to reduce his caffeine intake is very funny to me._

_Punk._

_Jerk. :)_

“Fascinating,” Tony murmurs, “this is what texting between two caregivers looks like.” 

Steve shoots him a smile as he pockets his phone. “That’s right. We spend our conversations plotting ways to get you guys into bed on time.” 

“Mr.Rogers, was that sarcasm?” 

“Was it? Well, what do you know.” 

Tony grins, because it’s a well-known fact that Steve Rogers is, in fact, a little shit most of the time, nowhere near the righteous, rule-abiding man Howard had always painted him as. The ‘aw, shucks’ act stopped working on Tony after about three weeks of living together in the tower. 

He decides to resume his search for his tablet, because he does _kinda_ need it for this meeting he should really be leaving for soon. Pepper will most certainly be on his case if he’s late, which is a) scary enough in and of itself and b) a surefire way to end up on 5th Avenue, braving the crowds and the luxury stores to find a very specific set of limited edition designer shoes. Yeah. He may or may not be on strike three right now. 

“Oh, are you looking for your tablet?” 

Tony looks up from where he’s lifting a couch cushion and nods. Steve gets up and approaches one of the drawers, pulling out his tablet. 

“I put it away after you fell asleep last night,” he explains, as he hands it over, and Tony can’t explain it but it’s such a _caregiver_ move that it has something warm and fond swelling in his chest, totally unbidden. 

“Thanks, Cap. I might, in fact, live to see another day now.” 

“Let’s not jinx ourselves.” 

He glances over at the clock on the wall, and his eyes widen almost comically. 

Tony spends the next minute or so being herded out of the communal floor by Steve, like he’s a kid that’s gonna miss his school bus or something, and _yeah_ , Pepper can be scary as all hell sometimes, so he doesn’t exactly blame him. 

“I won’t be home until about 7 tonight,” Steve informs him in the elevator, “I’m visiting a few schools, then a Children’s hospital in the afternoon.”

That’s another thing Steve has started insisting on doing—letting him know when he won’t be home, so that Tony knows to look for someone else if he needs it. Not that he can see himself needing it, of course, but he supposes the thought is nice.

The fact that Steve carefully left out the fact that he’s filming more PSAs has Tony smothering a smirk.

“Well, say hi for me, then. I have a meeting at about 7 so you might not catch me when you get back.” 

Steve shoots him a sidelong glance and raises an eyebrow. Tony just smiles serenely. 

~

As it turns out, Tony doesn’t get a whole lot of time to laugh with Bucky over clips of Steve scolding kids in detention, because at about 3 o’clock in the afternoon he receives an alert to assemble on his watch. He stands up so fast that the chair scrapes jarringly across the spotless tiled floor, drawing the attention of every business executive in the room. 

“Sorry, ladies and gentlemen. Duty calls.”

Pepper mouths a ‘be safe’ at him as he exits the room, still garnering the attention of everyone in it, which has him smiling and mouthing a quick ‘when am I not?’ back at her. He knows there are still eyes on him as he steps out onto the balcony of the highrise building and taps his watch a few times to bring up the line for the Avengers comms.

“Anyone on scene, yet?” he hears Steve ask, “what are we dealing with here?” 

He swipes a hand over the touch display on his watch, bringing up various holoscreens that show sat images, news reports, character profiles and threat level analysis, all compiled by JARVIS. 

“‘Tasha and I are on scene with a few S.H.I.E.L.D. agents,” Clint pipes up, “Agent Hill is forwarding you all the coordinates now. We’ve got automatons again, I make about a hundred of the bastards right now, they’re faster and stronger than the previous ones. My electronic arrowheads can only take down one at a time. Hill’s saying they’ve miraculously figured out the concept of network nodes or something, they share the same programming but they have to be taken out individually.”

“How’s evac? We got a perimeter set up yet?” Sam asks.

Tony hears the roar of the suit before it appears in his field of vision, and he gladly clambers inside, blinking a few times at all of the information laid out for him on his HUD. 

“A few blocks in all directions,” Nat confirms, “right down to 29th. You boys better hurry up and get over here though, these guys are a hell of a lot tougher than the last.” 

“What, getting tired already, Romanoff?” Clint teases, but the effect is dampened a little by his own breathlessness.

“Not as tired as you, Barton, you sound like you’ve run a marathon,” comes Nat’s reply, the smirk evident in her tone.

A map of the perimeter that’s already set up flashes before Tony’s eyes, alongside his current flight path. “JARVIS, call a few more suits, help evac anyone still inside the perimeter, notify first responders if they haven’t been notified already.”

“Of course, sir.” 

“I _think_ ,” Tony says, with his own line open now, “we should start a petition. No more automatons, every person found making an automaton will get a taste of Cap’s shield.”

“Why’s it gotta be me handing out punishments?” Steve asks.

“‘I don’t know, Stevie, you’re pretty good at handin’ out scoldings to kids in detention,” Bucky’s voice comes in, and Tony swears he hears the tortured sound of crushed metal somewhere in there.

Sam’s laughter is absolutely gleeful. “Did we tell Tony about that yet?” 

“Had the honor of doin’ it this morning,” Bucky confirms, immediately followed by a grunt and another screech of metal. 

“I knew it!” Steve bursts out, affronted, “I’m never telling any of you three anything ever again.”

“Aw, come on, Cap, you’re not gonna allow us this bonding experience?” Tony asks.

“Cold-hearted, man,” Sam chips in.

Hill’s voice cuts through the line, noticeably unimpressed despite the static that accompanies it. “Good afternoon, gents. I see we’re already breaking comm protocol.” 

“Wait, hold on a second, there’s a _comm protocol?_ ” Tony asks, “because I really can’t tell, Coulson has only mentioned it to me about, what, a hundred times?” 

“Less yakking, more getting the hell over here, boys,” Nat pipes up. 

“Funnily enough, I just arrived,” says Tony, as he surveys the perimeter. There is, in fact, a large swarm of automatons all down 22nd, 23rd and 25th, still together mostly, but there are some strays here and there that he happily swoops down to repulsor blast. The scene unfolding before him is sheer chaos, with abandoned cars sitting stock-still on the streets, packed together almost like sardines, a few remaining people still being shepherded towards the perimeter, shrill panicked screams echoing outwards and bouncing off the walls of the highrise buildings. Plumes of dark smoke drift up into the air, from upturned cars that have been crushed, resembling piles of tortured scrap metal more than anything else. It’s a clear blue afternoon too, with clouds drifting peacefully across the sky, a distinct counterpoint to the madness. 

“I’ve got an eye on the perimeter, picking off a few strays,” he says, “notice any weaknesses yet, Barton? Because they don’t seem very impervious to my repulsors but not all of us have suits.” 

“Focus your hits and your fire on their flanks and the backs of their heads,” he says, “it’s best to get the drop on them if you can, from behind ideally, don’t wanna be engaging these guys for too long.” 

“Copy that,” Steve says, “Falcon, Iron Man’s got the perimeter but I think Natasha and Clint could do with some aerial support, once you get there.” 

“Roger that, Cap, about two minutes out now.” 

“I know our play’s containment right now but I’d really love to have a word with whoever’s subjecting us to goddamn automatons every two seconds,” Tony grits out, as he lands heavily on the concrete and lasers through a group of three, nodding towards the SHIELD agent that’s herding a group of kids toward the perimeter behind him. 

“S.H.I.E.L.D.’s looking into it,” Hill says, “with any luck we’ll be able to pin down a few patterns after today.” 

Once Sam and Steve arrive on scene, they pick up momentum and manage to get through a good amount of the automatons without too many hitches, preventing them from splitting off and causing damage outside the perimeter. There’s an upswing in the team’s general mood, characteristic of a mission with an end in sight. They all enjoy the superhero day-job, but routine events like this get just the slightest bit tedious after the first few times.

“So, Cap,” says Tony, as he swoops by to cover Clint’s six, “Thor was telling me about this battle tactic during his last visit, I really think it could be beneficial. It’s called ‘get help.’”

“I know what ‘get help’ is, Tony,” Steve says flatly, as he jams his shield through an automaton, “and you’re _not_ throwing me at bunch of robots.”

“Can I?” Bucky and Sam ask at the same time, which has Tony laughing, bright and amused.

“Why did you two jump on that so quickly?” Steve asks, disbelief wound through his voice, “no one’s tossing me!”

“I’d do it very carefully, Steve,” Nat offers, leaping gracefully onto a car and catching the shield tossed her way, beating an unsuspecting automaton across the back of the head with it.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I like having my two feet on the ground, it works out well for me.”

There’s a pause. Then— “ _tasers?_ Seriously? Did this robot just try to _taser_ me? Hydra tried that, pal, doesn’t really work on me.” 

Bucky snorts, while Sam doesn’t even try to hide his amusement, laughter ringing out clear on the comms. 

“We can’t all be supersoldiers like you, Cap,” he says, as he brings his wings together to dodge a few projectiles, directing redwing forth to plant an EMP on the automaton that’s giving him trouble.

Tony is very much under the impression that this is it, that once they’ve rounded up the remaining automatons they could get search and rescue underway, and it’d mark a mission with significantly less property damage than usual. Then, a series of deafening booms shake the ground, and crackling feedback from the comms fills his ears. 

“That...did not sound good. JARVIS?” 

“It appears these buildings on 23rd have been rigged with explosives, sir. Key structural elements have been targeted. I estimate about thirty seconds until implosions occur.”

An image flashes across his HUD, highlighting the structural elements of the buildings that have been targeted.

“ _Shit_. Give me some juice, J.” 

He flies over to the aforementioned street, smoking and abandoned, save for the automaton corpses that litter it. 

“Scan both buildings for life signs.” 

There’s a pause. Tony barely registers the frantic back-and-forth on the comms over the blood pounding in his ears, the sick feeling churning inside his gut that he can’t even begin to unravel.

“Two heat signatures detected on the 34th floor of the left building, sir.” 

He swallows hard, eyes scanning over the flight path that appears on his HUD, displaying the quickest way to enter and exit the building. A pair of resounding cracks echo down the street, and he knows he’s working on borrowed time, so he acts, before he can even get his thoughts in order.

“There’s people in one of the buildings,” he tells the team, “I’m going in.” 

“Tony…” Steve’s voice is uncharacteristically thin, almost wavering, cracking across the frequency with more than just static interference. He clears his throat, his usual command slipping back in his tone, “Iron man, be careful. Quick as you possibly can, we don’t know what kind of explosives those things are still rigged with.” 

“Way ahead of you, Cap,” he says, as he flies straight through the window on the 34th floor, not sparing the shattered glass that falls around him so much as a second glance. He hears voices, fast and pitched up with blind panic, and he swoops into one of the conference rooms, pointedly ignoring the way the floor is beginning to sag inwards with a low, ominous groan. It doesn’t take much to convince the startled men to let him help them, servos audibly compressing and locking them both into place against the suit in a secure hold. A cracking sound fills his ears, almost like the harsh lash of a whip, and he makes quick work of exiting the building, through an open window this time, flying them to the perimeter and gently setting them down by one of the ambulances that’s parked there. 

When Tony returns it’s to the sight of his team members watching in vague horror as another series of rumbling booms echo out, followed by a shiver of shattering glass. Flames begin to lick at the jagged glass of the upper stories, and thick black smoke billows out, rising up into the air. Then, with another deafening boom, one of the buildings begins a collapse that occurs almost in slow motion, a gradual descent down toward the ground, swallowed up by the gritty dust that engulfs about half the street. He flies almost a block down, still surveying the perimeter, while keeping half an eye on his teammates. He catches a glint of Bucky’s metal arm before the man emerges from all the dust with a few spluttering coughs, taking out a stray automaton that creeps up behind him with scary ease. 

“Everyone still kicking?” Tony asks, because it’s always good to check. 

“Yeah, those of us who didn’t get caught up in all that dust,” Nat says, through a hearty bout of coughing.

“Alright, look alive, guys. We still got about thirty percent of those automatons left before we can start thinking about clean-up, so we gotta stay sharp,” Steve says.

“Bomb squad is on stand-by,” Hill tells them, “just in case those weren’t the only buildings rigged to blow. Be careful, everyone, you don’t wanna get caught up in any debris, and there are still reactionary quakes shaking things up.” 

Tony watches as the second building succumbs to a similar fate as the first. The billowing brown dust is nowhere near close to settling, disturbed every few seconds by shivers he can’t feel while he’s in the air, but knows are probably trembling the ground.

A few minutes have gone by when JARVIS pipes up, a note of what Tony swears is concern wound through his tone. “Sir, I’m afraid there has been a security breach at the tower. A man managed to very briefly override my protocols and obtain access to your personal floors, specifically the floor of your lab. He is currently attempting the same with your workshop. I believe he intends to take me offline, if his prior conversations ring true, so that the tower’s security systems will no longer be in effect.” 

Security footage pops up on his HUD as he blasts another automaton, of a man in a navy blue cleaner’s uniform with a ski mask pulled over his head. 

Tony snorts. “A ski mask? Seriously? Like _fuck_ I’m gonna let a guy get his hands on my stuff while he’s wearing a damn _ski mask_.” He pauses for a moment, almost absently blasting a few more strays, “actually, let him in, J. I wanna see what he does.”

“Sir, I’m not sure if—“

“J? Let him in.” 

There’s a pause. Then, JARVIS yields, opening the lab doors. He watches with interest as the man approaches one of his worktables, pulling a tablet and a data chip from his bag. Tony’s eyebrows raise.

“Sir, I believe he intends to collect data from the tower’s mainframe.”

“Yup, that’s not happening. Knock him out, J. Contingency plans still in place?”

“Will do, sir. And yes, upon scanning, all of my protocols remain intact, including any and all failsafes in the event of a data breach.”

Tony snorts. “Who the hell tries to go after data without addressing the failsafes?”

“Target has been tranquilized, sir. Shall I re-open your line to the Avengers communications?”

“Guess I should give them a heads-up, yeah.”

He does another sweep of the perimeter before falling back in where the other Avengers appear to be concentrated. He lands down on the ground and assists both Steve and Natasha in their joint effort against a group that have congregated on 25th. 

“Cap, there’s been a breach back at the tower, some guy weaseled his way onto the lab floor and tried to take JARVIS offline. It didn’t work, obviously, because only an idiot tries to take _JARVIS_ offline with a few crappy override codes, and I have a fuck tonne of tranquilizer darts installed into the walls, but I get the feeling this wasn’t just an attack for funsies. There’s an endgame here.” 

Steve nods, panting a little as he attempts to shake some dust out of his hair. “We’re just about wrapping up here, Iron Man, you can go collect him and bring him back to the S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarrier. They can deal with him while we handle clean-up and make sure no one was caught in the blast radius of those explosives.”

“We’ll have a few agents on stand by at the helicarrier,” Hill confirms, “is he enhanced?” 

“Not that I can see, but reinforced containment gear is never a bad idea. He should be out of commission for a few hours at least.” 

He’s just about gearing up to go, checking briefly on each team member to gauge how things are going, when Sam’s voice cuts across the comms, elevated with worry.

“Uh, guys, just me or are those stragglers over there set to blow?”

Tony lets out a low groan, because _fucking hell_ can things _not_ blow up for a hot second? But he stops short when he looks to where Sam is gesturing, gaze immediately finding the pair of automatons that have begun beeping ominously, at increasingly rapid intervals. Steve is close by, but he’s backing away now, expression hesitant.

“JARVIS?” 

“Scanning now, sir…” 

Uncharacteristic quiet falls over them.

“Sir, if my analysis is correct, you have about five seconds until detonation.”

“ _Fuck_. Cap, get the hell away right now!” he yells fiercely, sharp and harsh and _terrified_ as all hell, much to his own chagrin.

Tony doesn’t even think, he just lurches forward, touching down on the ground with some stumbling and gathering up both of the automatons, pressing them forcibly down into the ground and covering them both as best he can. 

It’s somewhat of a blur from there, hazy memories that are just out of reach, like smoke that reforms just as you’re getting an idea of the image it presents. A deafening ring in his ears, white-hot pain from an impact of some kind, and Steve calling out his name over the comms, his voice slashing across the frequency and crackling out once more.

Then, darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hurt comfort let's go


	7. cards on the table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for hospitalization !!

_Fuck._

That’s a lot of light. And sound. And _pain_. 

There’s bright light trying to worm it’s way under his eyelids, and there’s...voices. That’s right. Voices. Voices that are speaking _far_ too damn loud, every syllable pounding right into his skull, making this head throb, sending hot waves of pain down his spine. A pained moan escapes him, low and garbled, and the voices stop. Which is nice. _Very_ nice. But he still hurts all over, still feels like his brain might just leak right out of his ears and fuck, it’s still so _bright_ , and the sharp scent of antiseptic is hitting his nose and it’s all _too much._

“Tony?” 

That sounds important, so Tony cracks his eyes open. His vision is blurred, blotchy patches of colors bleeding into one another, and he can’t make anything out for a few moments. 

He sees three? No, two. No...one, _one_ red-haired woman standing from her chair, holding something white in her hands as she approaches his bed. And Tony knows who she is, he really does, _so why can’t he remember?_ He blinks sluggishly, squinting against the oppressive light, and hot waves of dizziness crash down over him when he tries to move, so he lays back and decides that staying still is good. Very good. 

_Fuck_ , does his head hurt. It feels like something is pressing into it on all sides, unrelenting, a pressure that intensities with each stab of pain. He tries to remember who the woman standing by his bed is, but that just results in more dizzying confusion, pain shooting up his spine and settling in what feels like his fucking _skull_ , pulsing and sharp.

“I…” he tries to get a sentence out, tries to use his words, but his mouth just won’t cooperate, static buzzing in his mind and muddying all his thoughts.

“Don’t force anything, shellhead,” comes another voice, pitched low, soft and soothing, “you hit your head pretty hard.”

Right. He hit his head. That sounds...right. Accurate, probably. He swallows, and his throat burns, like it’s stuffed full of sandpaper, harsh and grating. 

He tilts his head, angling it upwards, and _that’s_ a mistake, because it has nausea churning sickenly in his gut, climbing his throat, and he doesn’t even have to get a word out before the woman — Pepper! That’s it — swoops forward, accompanied this time by a man with dark hair who rubs circles into his back, mumbling about something that Tony can’t even begin to process as he heaves, hands latching onto the sides of the bag, vision blurring with stinging tears.

He collapses back down onto the bed. 

Time passes, but Tony doesn’t know how much, and he feels like he _should_ know, but he doesn’t, because...well, time is confusing, and his thoughts are confusing, and there’s light and sound and smells and it’s all overloading his senses, feeding into the static that’s consuming his brain and the pain that’s pounding in his skull, throbbing and incessant. 

The next time he wakes he’s still hurting all over but the light doesn’t grate at him like nails on a chalkboard, and he can pick up on the things that are being said around him without having to jump through mental hoops, push his brain to the point of pain. This time, he knows it’s Nat, Sam and Bucky sitting by his bed, and they jump up at once, relief written all over their faces, which is weird, because all Tony did was take a quick nap. Nothing to write home about there.

“Oh thank _fuck_ , someone call Steve,” Sam says. 

Words are coming easier to him now, so after swallowing a few times, he says, “ _shit_ , guys, what’s the deal with me and waking up in hospitals with concussions?” 

It doesn’t come out entirely right, Tony can hear that the syllables are all slurred, bleeding into one another, and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, _foreign_ almost, but Sam’s eyes shine anyway as he approaches the bed.

“You mean apart from the fact that you’re a superhero who flies around in about 250 pounds of cutting-edge armor on the regular?”

“Didn’t—didn’t realise you were such a fan, birdbrain.”

Nastaha snorts somewhere behind him. “Yeah. He’s gonna be fine.”

“I can appreciate good tech from time to time,” Sam grins indulgently, “maybe I’m just feeling generous.”

“Sympathy for the invalid. I see how it is.” He pauses, fighting back the urge to groan as his head pulses, sharp pain engulfing it. “Fucking... _ow_.” Another pause. “Did I say that out loud?”

A smile lurks at the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “We won’t hold it against you. That was a hell of a hit you took. You’ve woken up a few times on your own, but we haven’t been able to get you awake for hours now. Nurses were gettin’ worried. Had to kick Stevie out ‘cause he was pacing a hole into the floor and gettin’ all snappy.”

Tony tries to remember what happened before the hospital, but comes up frustratingly blank, the memories just out of his gasp, foggy and barely-there, swirling and dissolving each time he tries to bring them into clarity. 

“Now he’s biting Fury’s head off,” Nat pipes up with a smirk.

Tony squints, struggling to keep the image before his eyes in focus. That...doesn’t sound good. Steve probably shouldn’t be biting people’s heads off. “What’d Fury do?”

She and Sam exchange a glance. Bucky looks between them, before seeming to make an executive decision and saying, “we’ll spare you the details for now. You should get some more rest.”

For once in his life Tony doesn’t feel much of an urge to argue, because his pounding headache has settled somewhere behind his eyes now, and sleep is just about the only respite he’ll get from it. 

Time slips through his fingers yet again, and his clarity of mind is fickle, coming and going during his next few wake-ups. He has hazy memories of a few nurses checking up on him, of being carted somewhere, of being guided towards a cup of water, of various people... _friends_ , his brain supplies helpfully, chatting amongst themselves, using hushed tones, which Tony greatly appreciates. 

By the time his awareness returns again the sky is a canvas of black outside, and the lights are no longer so harsh on his eyes. There’s still pain, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the hot, searing pressure from before. His ascent to consciousness is slow, like wading through murky waters, but gradually information from his surroundings starts to filter through, and he immediately recognizes the blue eyes that peer at him from his bedside. 

“Hey baby,” he speaks up, just a few shades above a murmur, and Tony doesn’t even rebuff the term of endearment, because Steve has a gentle hand in his hair and he really doesn’t want him to move it. He’s not sure if it’s a psychological thing or what, but it’s doing _wonders_ for his migraine, that seems to be ratcheting up in intensity every few seconds before ebbing away, pain temporarily receding. 

“Steve,” he breathes, “what’d...what’d Fury do?”

Steve chuckles, warm and infinitely fond, shaking his head a little as he runs the back of his other hand along the side of Tony’s face, knuckles barely grazing skin.

“Straight to business, huh?”

“Didn’t remember before,” Tony says, by way of explanation, “now I do.” 

Steve’s expression takes on a more serious edge, and he shifts a little in his chair, closer to Tony. “Do you remember what happened? Before the hospital, I mean?”

“I…” Tony squints, and the pain in his head kicks up a notch, punching a low groan out of his throat that he can’t quite choke back in time.

“Hey, hey, don’t force it, it’s okay, just wanted to check in is all.” 

Tony nods, pleased when the movement doesn’t make his brain fog over with pain. 

There’s a pause. 

Steve lets out a breath, thin and wavering, and he rests his palm on the side of Tony’s face, eyes taking Tony in like he’s committing every detail to memory. 

“God. I was so...” he hesitates, inhaling deeply, “I was so damn worried, Tony. I—if anything had happened, I would’ve—that would’ve—“

Tony brings a hand up to cover Steve’s. His lips quirk up into a smile. 

“Hey. I’m fine, big guy. Can’t remember exactly what went down but with all the crazy shit that’s happened over the past few years, I wasn’t about to let myself get offed on a sunny afternoon like that. Nowhere _near_ enough drama there. At the very _least_ , it has to be nighttime.” 

Steve laughs, and it sounds choked, like it got caught up in his throat somewhere. “You’re right. You’re too stubborn for that.” 

“Damn right I am.” 

Steve’s smile grows, only to be replaced with a frown when Tony winces through a sudden surge of pain. 

“Does it hurt anywhere?”

 _Does it hurt anywhere, he says._

Tony can’t quite hold back a giggle, which is a little jarring, because usually he can. In his earlier delirium he’d had a hard time getting a handle of his emotions, holding them back from spilling out all over the place, but he’s feeling better now, clearer, so surely…

Steve tips his head a little to the side, a smile tugging at his mouth. “What’s funny, bunny?”

“You did _not_ just call me that in big headspace.”

“Hm, think I _did_ , actually,” Steve says, smiling full-on now, because he’s a little shit like that. 

Tony lays back on the bed, because he gets the feeling that the pain will explode in a burst of white hot agony if he so much as _tries_ to sit up, and turns his head before he can stop himself, nuzzling into Steve’s palm like he’s been possessed by an attention-starved cat all of a sudden. Steve grins, and obliges the silent request, running his palm gently over Tony’s scalp, the side of his face, along the underside of his jaw. Contentment blooms inside Tony’s chest, simmers just beneath his skin, and he settles back down onto the stiff hospital pillow with a sigh, eyes falling shut.

“Tired?” Steve practically coos, and Tony just _knows_ he had to stop himself tacking on a ‘sweetheart’ or something along those lines. He doesn’t call him out on it, partially because his concussion-addled brain approves of the affection, and he’s feeling _really_ fucking tired all of a sudden, exhaustion settling over him like a blanket, warm and increasingly hard to resist.

“‘Y’ should sleep, too,” he mumbles.

There’s a smile in Steve’s voice when he says, “I will, Tony. Sleep tight.” 

~

His CT’s come out clear, which is good, purely because dealing with any real brain damage sounds like a headache. Literally. Tony doesn’t have time for any major medical treatments, especially seeing as this ordeal has already knocked two days out of his week. The fact that Steve promised the nurses that he’ll continue to monitor Tony for any signs of worsening symptoms once he’s discharged doesn’t exactly put him at ease either, because Tony just _knows_ he’s gonna take that duty as seriously as possible. Say what you want about him, but Captain Earnest does _not_ do things in halves. 

Pepper sits with him on his hospital bed the following morning and they call Rhodey together. The general _oh good, you’re not dead’s_ are exchanged, and by the end of the conversation Tony has somehow agreed to creating licensed War Machine merchandise, because Rhodey _hinted_ at feeling unappreciated with all of the Avengers-themed items that are floating around in stores now, and that absolutely won’t do. Rhodey’s choosing the charity that the proceeds are going to, Tony can pretty much just take a look in his wardrobe for inspiration, with the ridiculous number of War Machine shirts he already owns. All is well. 

Except for this, you know, splitting headache that comes and goes. That’s not so fun. But hey, he has painkillers for that. 

In fact, speaking of headaches—

“Fury wants you and Steve at S.H.I.E.LD. headquarters ASAP.” 

Tony groans and collapses back onto the bed like a fading Southern belle, arm draped over his face, without hindering his view of the Starkpad on his lap. “Does Fury understand words like ‘concussion’ and ‘recovery’ or are those just things that aren’t in his vocabulary?” 

Natasha arches an eyebrow, gaze sharp but amused. “Do _you_ understand the meaning of either of those words?”

“Hey, what do you think I’m doing right now?"

“Working on your tablet by the looks of it, while Steve is conveniently out getting you a coffee.” 

“Apart from that,” he says, dragging his hand over a holoscreen. “I am, without a doubt, entirely recovered. I can see straight and everything.”

“Sounds like a low threshold for recovery.”

“My thoughts generally remain unscrambled, if I concentrate hard enough,” he offers absently, rapidly getting absorbed into a file Pepper had forwarded him from R&D, eyes protesting only slightly at the dazzling blue light emanating from the holograms. He tuts under his breath and starts composing an email, eyes flicking between the file and the text. His reading speed is nowhere near what it is normally, and it takes conscious effort to keep his gaze focused at times, but it’ll have to do.

“ _How_ have you gotten your hands on a tablet already?” Steve asks, as he sets a to-go cup of coffee on the foldable hospital table and plucks the aforementioned tablet out of Tony’s hands despite his splutters of protest. 

“They said _‘limited screen time’_ , Cap, not _‘take yourself back to the stone ages,’_ ” he says, well, more like _whines_ , but same difference. 

“Actually, they said ‘limited screen time _if you have to.’_ Natasha, can you give us a moment?”

The corners of Natasha’s lips subtly quirk up. “He’s all yours.” 

Her boots clack against the tiles on her way out, and the door closes with a soft thud. 

Tony crosses his legs and sips gingerly at his coffee, watching as Steve takes a seat nearby. The lack of something to do hits him almost immediately, brings the ache in his limbs to the forefront of his mind, has him acutely aware of the fact that his little headspace is slowly but steadily starting to encroach on his thoughts, undoubtedly due to the stress of the past few days. The sun streaming in through the window isn’t exactly helping matters either, with the way it’s warming his skin, sapping the energy from his body. 

Steve starts speaking, and Tony tries his best to listen. 

“Pepper didn’t want me to tell you this because she thinks you should be focusing on recovering. I do too,” he adds, like that was ever something that was up in the air, “but I still think I should give you the choice. Natasha does too.”

He pauses to take a breath, and Tony smiles a little, “should I be settling in for a long-winded tale or what?”

“Sort of,” Steve admits, “that guy you knocked out at the tower led S.H.I.E.L.D. down some rabbit holes. But before I start, how much do you remember about the fight?”

“Little fuzzy on the details,” says Tony, “but I got maybe like...a general gist.” 

“Alright. And you’re feeling big enough for this?”

Tony is well-practiced in the art of wrangling his little headspace into submission, so he nods. “Right as rain, Captain. Don’t leave a guy in suspense here.” 

Steve’s eyes roam his face, and Tony tries to keep his posture as open as possible, his expression relaxed without overdoing it. 

It seems to work, because he nods. “Okay. The guy from the tower’s name is James Pierce, he’s a recent MIT graduate that excelled in all his classes, flew through his degrees. He ratted out his friend, who seems to be the logistics man behind everything, but we’re not sure on details yet. A guy named Cameron Davis, graduated from California Institute of Technology, but S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t find a whole lot on his whereabouts since then, just suspected aliases and odd jobs. He was already in their database because of his suspected ties to AIM, but they could never find anything concrete.”

Tony has to actively work to keep any tension from seeping into his muscles at that, keeping his breaths steady and his gaze even. It’s a close thing, but Steve doesn’t seem to pick up on it.

“They both take credit for the automatons and the planted explosives but Pierce refuses to rat anyone else out and Cameron has barely spoken a word. Says he won’t talk to anyone but the pair of us, together.” 

Tony blinks, and pointedly ignores the roiling feeling of unease that churns in his gut, pasting a sharp smile onto his face. “Then what are we waiting for, Cap? The guys wants a talk with us then he can get one. Fury’ll be breathing down our necks if we don’t, and I quite like my neck, y’know, not being breathed on. Don’t like being hounded much by S.H.I.E.L.D. in general, if I’m being honest.”

Steve nods, resigned. “Had a feeling you’d wanna get in there as soon as possible.”

“You know me so well. Happy got a car out front yet?”

“Yeah. He had a feeling you’d be leaving sooner rather than later.” His jaw tightens a little, “guess I should forward Fury the good news too.”

Tony grins. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Let’s just say we don’t see eye to eye sometimes.” 

“Sounded to me like it was a little more than just a difference of opinion,” says Tony, “something more along the lines of...oh, I don’t know, you biting his head off, perhaps?” 

Steve huffs, eyes sparking with amusement. “Natasha, huh?” 

“Right on the money. So, you gonna tell me what Fury’s done or do I have to find out for myself?” 

Steve sighs, before saying, “we’ll talk in the car.” 

Tony gives him a considering look, before shrugging and getting up from the bed. “Alright then. Keep me in suspense, why not?” 

He doesn’t know whether it’s the concussion he’s recovering from or the thoughts whirling through his head that leave him feeling nauseous on the way out. 

~

S.H.I.E.L.D. had a breach two weeks ago, according to Steve. The only files that were accessed were Tony’s, which is...a _statement_ , if he’s ever seen one, not even _trying_ to pretend they’re after information they’re not. Fury claims that no information was accessed, which is why he took the liberty of keeping the breach to himself. Steve thinks he should’ve told Tony his information had potentially been compromised. They got into a bit of a spat over it. 

He can’t even tease Steve about defending his honor to Fury because he’s too busy trying to maintain his increasingly tenuous grip on his big headspace, taking steady breaths in, forcefully derailing any thoughts about soft blankets, or stuffies, or goddamn _pacifiers_. And fuck, okay, maybe this was a _horrible_ idea, but he’ll be damned if he lets a concussion or a few urges to suck his thumb stop him from making himself useful. 

_Is the inside of Happy’s car always this hot?_

“Tony? You’re being...quiet.” 

“Am I?” he asks, inclining his head a little, forcing his lips up into a press smile. 

He can’t look at Steve, can’t face the concern that’s probably written all over his face, brimming in his eyes, because it’s _Steve_ , because he’s so damn _good_ , and Tony can’t even make himself half useful.

“Yeah. You are. Sure you’re still up for this? You can back out anytime.” 

The windows of the car are tinted but everything still seems so bright, seems like the whole world is grating at every one of his senses, and _fuck_ , everyone probably knows now, know who he is, all those people walking by, they must know by now, if someone’s managed to get their hands on his file.

Tony wants to cry, can feel the urge building up inside his throat, the tears blurring everything in his field of vision, and it’s strange, because shouldn’t the _‘my emotions are all over the place’_ phase of his concussion be over by now? He’s downright _horrified_ when he has to stifle a sob that tries valiantly to claw its way out of his throat, because he’s Tony Stark, he’s better than this, he can control this, he _can_. 

“Tony,” Steve says, voice pitched down to a more soothing cadence, “you’re hyperventilating. Can you look at me?”

Tony shakes his head, pressing a hand to his mouth and turning as much towards the window as he possibly can, trying desperately to get a grip on himself, on the emotions that are going absolutely haywire in his brain. 

_What the fuck is going on with him right now?_

He hears the distinct click of a seatbelt being unbuckled, followed by a bit of shuffling, denim against leather. Steve must be in the middle seat now, because Tony can feel the body warmth he’s radiating, can feel it all along his right side, and it makes him want to curl up, forget the world at large exists for a while. Which is ridiculous, really, and not at _all_ a big thought, so he shoves it back down. 

“Hey,” Steve says, “can I touch you? Is that okay?” 

Humiliation claws at his insides, settles hot in his chest, prickles at the back of his neck, but he nods anyway, pressing his forehead up against the glass and relishing in how cool it feels against his flushed skin. 

A steady hand closes over his own, and Steve guides it towards his chest. Tony’s heaving breaths are starting to hitch a little on each inhale, and he feels light-headed — it’s nothing like post-battle light-headedness, when the adrenaline is leached from his body and a fuzzy sense of relief comes over him. It’s frantic, and panicked, the kind of light-headed you get when you’re trying to breath but the air won’t quite reach your lungs. 

“Tony, can you breathe with me? Just try one with me, alright? Just one.” 

Tony tries to take a deep breath, but it shatters around the edges, breaks off into a sob, and he’s so goddamn _mortified_ it’s not even funny. 

“Hey, _hey_ , shh, shh, it’s alright, just keep breathing with me, okay? Keep going, you’ll get there,” Steve says, practically crooning now, his body a solid column of warmth against Tony’s side. 

His voice is filled with so much kindness, so much warm understanding, that Tony snaps like a rubber band under too much pressure, turning away from the window and practically collapsing into Steve’s chest, uncontrollable sobs shaking him apart as he clutches at the shirt beneath his hands like it’s a lifeline. Arms wrap around him almost instantly, firm enough that he feels protected but nowhere near tight enough to be smothering. 

Steve peppers kisses all over his head, coos sweet nonsense into his ear, and it isn’t long until Tony’s breaths start to even out again, until his sobs are reduced to nothing more than the occasional sniffle.

He feels steadier when he pulls away, surprisingly enough, sporting the kind of relief he only ever really gets from a good, cathartic cry. Steve’s hand seems to come up on autopilot, gently wiping at the stray tears that cling to his face. 

“I’m not little,” Tony says, voice raw around the edges, because he feels like he should state that for the record. 

Steve offers him a small smile. “I know.” 

He pauses, before saying, “although that honestly sort of makes it worse, so maybe we should just say that I slipped into headspace and had a meltdown, you know, to keep up pretenses. Keep my dignity in tact and all that.” 

Steve shakes his head, reaching over to buckle himself up into the middle seat. “Remember that one time Thor brought over Asgardian mead and I ended up crying all over you? Or all those times I’ve cried at a movie? I’m not judging you, Tony. These past few days have been stressful, and you got a pretty severe concussion to boot, which is bound to mess with your head a little. Crying is a perfectly normal response to that.”

Tony swallows. “I wouldn’t call what just happened crying so much as a full-blown breakdown.” 

“You really think that makes a difference to me? I’ve seen plenty of men cry in my time. It just...happens. That’s life.” 

Tony gives him a sidelong glance. Steve’s smile looks just the slightest bit sad, and that won’t do. 

He sucks in a breath, swallows his pride, and says, “thank you, Cap.” 

It’s worth it for the light that re-enters Steve’s smile. 

Silence settles over them for a few long minutes. Tony is feeling a million different shades of humiliation, but it’s offset slightly by how genuine Steve had seemed about not judging him. He knows that Steve has never been much of a good liar either, and even if he was, after years spent in the thick of the business world, parsing people’s lies sort of just becomes second-nature. 

Then again, Obie managed to not only blindside him but rip the thing keeping him alive from his chest, so maybe none of that is worth a damn.

“I’m still doing this, by the way,” he says, cutting through the silence. 

Steve’s smile seems equal parts fond, exasperated and pained. It’s an interesting combination, that results in a very specific twist of his mouth. “I sort of got that gist, yeah. Is it worth telling you again that you can back out at any time?” 

“Definitely not. I’ve been MIA for two days, Cap. This is pretty much the _least_ I can do to make myself useful.”

A frown clouds Steve’s features. “You don’t _have_ to do anything. You’re useful when you’re recovering.” 

Tony snorts. “Well isn’t that a cute thought.” 

“Tony—“

The car comes to a stop, and it’s only when the partition rolls down that Tony realizes they’ve arrived. He steps out before Steve can get another word in, and judging from the shrewd look Happy gives him as he adjusts his jacket, debates how much of it to zip up, his brief crying stint didn’t exactly go unnoticed. 

They’d stopped by the tower, just long enough for Tony to take a quick shower and get his bearings, so he didn’t exactly pay the weather forecast much mind as he was choosing his clothes but _damn_ , is it cold. It’s a regular day for New York, overcast with hints of sunshine peeking through at random intervals, but his jeans and his leather jacket seem to be outright leaching the warmth from his body as he crosses the underground parking lot, Steve at his side, shooting him unsubtle looks every now and again. 

“I _did_ mention it was gonna be cold later, on the way to the tower,” Steve says, like he’s just throwing it out there, and Tony huffs.

“Okay, one, I’m not even cold, maybe it’s just _you_ that can’t comprehend the fact that hugging myself is a stylistic choice, totally done on purpose, and two, that’s not fair, because you know the outside world is dead to me when I’m working.” 

“You were _working?_ ” 

“Please Cap, you think I haven’t mastered the art of typing while my phone's in my pocket? What kind of tech genius do you take me for?” 

“But—you weren’t typing, I never saw you typing,” Steve splutters, as they enter the elevator. 

Tony pointedly keeps his gaze away from his own reflection, which is an impressive feat, seeing as mirrors cover pretty much the entirety of the walls. 

He flashes Steve a smile. “That’s what I wanted you to think, big guy. Don’t feel too bad, you got your peace of mind and I got that email done. And would you look at that, I even got it done _without_ screen time.” 

“ _You,_ ” says Steve, pointing an accusatory finger, “are something else.” 

Tony laughs despite himself. “Not an uncommon accusation, but always a welcome one.” 

Agent Hill is the one to greet them when they arrive, as well as brief them before they enter. There’s one-sided glass, part and parcel, really, when it comes to interrogation rooms, behind which Hill and Coulson will be overseeing things. She tells them that should a situation arise, they’d be extracted immediately, which has Tony hiding a smile behind his hand, because not only is Steve a supersoldier, he’s fighty as all hell. If Davis even _thinks_ about trying anything, he’ll undoubtedly be all over that. Plus, it’s not like Tony is some damsel either. He has tricks, and he’s not totally useless from a hand-to-hand perspective. Nevertheless, it’s standard protocol, so Tony just nods along. 

The room itself isn’t anything to write home about; relatively small, sterile, covered all over with grey, bathed in harsh, fluorescent light that has Tony blinking a few times as he follows Steve inside, closing the door behind him. The man that sits before him looks...well, _normal_ , to be frank, hair streaked with dirty blonde, eyes grey and perceptive, sharpening the moment he and Steve enter. He inclines his head a little, and there’s a manic tilt to his smile that puts Tony on edge. Even that, though, is nothing compared to the sly lilt of his voice when he says, “gentlemen. I was starting to believe you wouldn’t be joining me.”

Tony keeps his stance relaxed. “Yeah, well, I was sort of down for the count a while. Isn’t that funny how it works, when you rig a bunch of automatons with explosives?”

Davis just smiles, eyes practically dancing as he makes a point of taking both of them in. “I didn’t intend for you to come in harms way. I just needed a distraction, is all.”

“Got a funny way of showing it. How’d that distraction work out, by the way? Because judging from the fact that you’re sitting here in front of us, I’d say not so well.”

“Even the most intelligent among us make miscalculations, but I’m sure you’re well aware of that fact already, Mr.Stark,” he tilts his head a little, “I underestimated your AI.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.” 

Davis purses his lips and turns his attention toward Steve, who meets his gaze evenly, shoulders set straight and rigid.

“Captain, I’d recommend that the audio for this room be cut.” 

“Give us one good reason why that isn’t a terrible idea,” Tony says.

Davis shrugs, “it’s not necessary, really. If anything it’s for _your_ benefit, Mr.Stark, so maybe you should be thankful.” 

Something like dread twists in Tony’s gut. He shoots Steve a glance, only to find that his eyes are still locked on Davis, expression hard. 

He taps the communicator in his ear, gaze never wavering, “give us a few minutes alone with him.” There’s a response that Tony can’t quite catch. “I’m sure.” 

Tony gestures toward Davis. “You seem relaxed. You know, for a guy that’s alone in a room with two Avengers and all.” 

Davis shrugs, “I’m finding that I’m not so scared of you, now that I know what you are.”

Dread grips his chest, almost to the point of pain, but Tony keeps his expression carefully neutral as he takes those words in. He smiles, sharp and jagged, and approaches the table. “Look, I don’t know if you’ve heard or not, maybe word doesn’t get around to your circles, whatever, but the people I want dead wind up pretty fucking dead.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat? Because I was under the impression that neither of you can lay a finger on me right now.” 

“Just a statement of fact, that’s all. Cards on the table.” 

“For a Little, you’re dangerous, I’ll give you that. Maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising, now that I think about, I hear meltdowns can make even a person like you a bit...unhinged. Maybe all you need is a bottle to set you straight?”

“Watch it,” Steve warns, taking a step forward.

Tony can’t help the sudden breath that escapes him in a rush, like he’s been sucker-punched in the stomach. He gathers every ounce of strength that remains in his body and pastes on a smile. 

“I don’t know about that, but I’m sure a jail cell will set _you_ straight. That’s what this is, right? You wanted a chance to shove this in my face? Got access to my S.H.I.E.L.D. file and suddenly you think you have something to hold over my head?”

Davis looks genuinely confused, eyebrows furrowing for a moment. “Your S.H.I.E.L.D. file? I don’t think so.”

“Then how…?” the question is out before Tony can snap his mouth shut, force it back down.

“For someone with your past, you’re not nearly as mistrustful of people as you ought to be. You really can’t think of an instance over the past month where you let your guard down, weren’t as careful as you should’ve been? In my experience, Mr.Stark, desperation does tend to bring out the worst in people.”

At those words it clicks, so suddenly that he nearly stumbles with it. He feels numb all over, like he’s been encased in ice. He hears Steve’s questions, hears him ask after Davis’ ties to AIM, hears him ask what he’s looking to achieve from all this, he even hears the cryptic, dead-end responses that Davis spouts, as easy as breathing, but he can’t bring himself to speak for a few long minutes.

“You’ve failed,” Tony tells him, “whatever it is you’re trying to do, you’ve failed. You didn’t get any data from the Tower’s mainframe.” 

“Goading me into talking is a nice strategy, I’ll give you that, but Miss Romanoff has already been in here, Mr.Stark, so maybe you could spare me.” 

Tony very happily ignores him. “I don’t know you, but I know AIM,” he says, “any power that the Avengers have is power that AIM doesn’t. It’s always the same shit with people like you—destabilise the Avengers, watch them crumble, that’s the endgame. But you can’t do _anything_ from where you’re going.”

Davis arches an eyebrow, sits back in his chair. “Failure. It’s a very black and white way of thinking. In my opinion, progress is progress.”

“What, and figuring out my classification is progress? You want a gold star or something?” 

Davis directs his gaze toward Steve, a condescending tilt to his smile. “Nap time, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, for _you_ in a minute, if you don’t shut up,” Steve snaps, hardened steel in his gaze, tension wound through every line in his body. He turns toward Tony, and some of the rigidity falls away almost instantly. “I think we’re done here.” 

“Very much so,” Tony agrees, “this guy’s voice is officially single-handedly responsible for the return of my migraine.”

On his way out, Davis cheerily wishes him luck in finding a pacifier to suck on. Tony flips him off. 

Steve places a hand on his arm once they’ve exited the room, in what’s clearly meant to be assurance, but Tony just shrugs him off and keeps walking. Hurt flashes across his face, and Tony feels guilt spike in his chest, hot and sharp and hard to breathe around, but he pushes it aside in favor of greeting Coulson with a put-upon smile.

“So is Fury gonna start haranguing us about that or what?”

“He’s waiting for you in conference room 5,” Coulson confirms, pleasant yet grave. 

The windows in the room they’re led to are tinted, sleek black chairs surrounding a polished oak table. Steve greets Hill jovially, and Fury with terse, clipped tones, and Tony can’t even be amused by that because his heart feels like it’s in his throat. 

“Well, we know AIM was backing them,” he says, without preamble.

Fury arches an eyebrow, and gestures for them to sit. “Did he really confirm that? Because last I heard the son of a bitch wasn’t saying a word.” 

“Well, clearly he found the audience he was looking for,” Steve says wryly, as they take two of the chairs on the opposite end of the table.

“Before we go any further, I wanna clarify that the audio in that room was still being recorded. No one listened to it on the speakers, not while it was happening, but if there’s anything on there you two don’t want us to hear—“

“I’m a Little,” Tony says, directing his words at Hill, because _fuck it,_ why not, what does he have to lose at this point, “there, now you can listen to it.” 

Beside him, Steve lets out a breath. Fury doesn’t react outwardly, but Tony swears a hint of surprise flashes briefly across his face, gone as soon as it appears.

If Hill is at all shocked by the words, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she just nods with a distinct air of professional courtesy. There’s a bit of hesitation in her voice as he swipes across the tablet on her lap and brings a holoscreen up in front of them, an audio waveform lit up in pale blue.

“Are you sure?” 

Tony sits back in his chair and offers them all a press smile, which seems to be the running theme for today. “I’m not in a summarizing mood, anyway. Go ahead.” 

Steve goes to reach for him, but stops short at the last second and retracts his arm, which really shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

Hearing Davis’ voice isn’t any better the second time, but Fury and Hill’s expressions don’t betray any reactions, which makes it somewhat more bearable. When the audio comes to a stop Tony leans forward again, bringing his hands together.

“Great. Now that we’re all on the same page here, I have a theory. You heard what he said when I associated him with AIM — he pretty much as good as confirmed it, with that wisecrack about failure being a ‘black and white way of thinking’ or whatever. I think a good part of the reason he wanted data from the Tower was so that he could get some solid evidence that I’m a little — security footage, photos, purchasing history — anything along those lines. He seems like a bit of a prima donna, looks out for himself above all else, I don’t know if AIM happened to be the highest bidder or if he’s more involved with them than that, but he was either looking to sell the evidence or get it out there himself, obviously because he thinks I’ll have a nervous breakdown and quit the Avengers or something, because you know, Littles, that’s what we’re all like.” 

Steve is carrying a very specific kind of tension in his shoulders, the kind that Tony recognizes immediately as the result of clenching his fists under the table. “I don’t like how relaxed he seemed in there, either. We need to keep an eye out.”

“Agreed,” says Hill, “he didn’t get the data but he might have other plans lined up. Who knows who else is involved. If he was willing to go through this much trouble to target Stark, who knows how much trouble he’ll go through to target the Avengers.” 

“If a vendetta against the Avengers is all this is, then dealing with that will be the easy part. S.H.I.E.L.D. has been trying to crack down on AIM for years, they prefer to keep their operations underground unless they’re certain they can keep their name out of things. Now that they’ve been labelled a terrorist group after that whole Mandarin stunt they pulled, they’re probably trying to carry out their dirty work through other people, stay on the low as much as possible,” says Fury.

Privately, Tony’s thoughts are already racing with measures to employ — having JARVIS look into any suspicious AIM fronts, specifically-geared servers and algorithms, additional upgrades to tower security, but he keeps that to himself. 

It’s only just hit 12 o’clock and he’s already feeling exhaustion begin to creep in. He listens with detached interest as the discussion continues, tapping rapidly at his thigh, mostly to keep himself alert enough that he doesn’t fall asleep and brain himself on the table by accident. He’s not looking for another concussion so soon after the last. In fact, he thinks he’s done with concussions for a _long while._

He absently rubs at his eyes when they begin to droop, only realizing that there’s been a lull in the conversation when he looks up. 

“Uh. I agree?” 

An amused smile tugs at Hill’s lips. “I said you should get some rest. You look tired.” 

“Rest is for—” he stifles a yawn with his hand, “people who aren’t busy.” 

“S.H.I.E.L.D. won’t take up anymore of your time today, Stark. You look like a dead man walking,” says Fury, which even has _Hill_ blinking a few times in disbelief.

“I resent that,” says Tony, “I look great all the time. I’m not even—” another stifled yawn, “tired. So, there.” 

Fury levels him with a flat look. “Get some fucking sleep. You’re not useful to us when you’re on the brink of collapse.” 

Tony snorts. “You always know just what to say.” 

Steve looks geared up for another verbal face-off, so Tony stands from his chair and tugs him up, offering Hill and Fury a tight-lipped smile. 

“Well, update me, or leave the back door to your servers open so that JARVIS can get the information anyway.”

Fury rolls his...eye? His eye. “We’ll update you, Stark. Leave our servers the hell alone.” 

Tony just grins and waves as he exits, tugging a reluctant Steve along behind him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, writing tony: Is There Enough Melodrama And Self Deprecation 
> 
> anyways.......he deserves hugs <33
> 
> next chapter should be up in a day or two!


	8. wall-e

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potential trigger warning for brief mentions of mind/body altering drugs! but other than that minimal hurt all comfort

“So...any plans for what we’re gonna tell the rest of the team?”

Tony shrugs off his leather jacket with a deep sigh. 

They’re back at the tower now, awaiting an elevator, and he already has about a thousand things on his mind, his current predicament notwithstanding. He knows the Avengers won’t have the full context behind Davis’ plans without knowing his classification, but this really isn’t how he planned on telling them — he thought he’d be able to have a measure of control over when, exactly, that happened. He can’t get Davis’ voice out of his head, either, it weaves his way into his thoughts with a vengeance no matter how much he tries to push it to the back of his mind.

Rationally, he knows that Davis would be relying on word of mouth, if he decided he really wasn’t getting out of this mess, and that he might as well get some form of revenge. There’d be no evidence. S.H.I.E.L.D. is currently the only body that has this information about him on record, and they’re kind of a secret spy organization that probably isn’t going out of their way to expose what’s on their servers. Still, it’d be enough for a lot of people, he knows that. Rumors would be spread like wildfire no matter how faint the spark, interest would be piqued. 

The tabloids have been dragging his name through the mud for decades, often rightfully so, and he’s developed a habit of tuning a lot of it out, letting it fade into the background like white noise. He knows a majority of people are perfectly reasonable, good individuals, who wouldn’t care that Tony Stark is a Little. He also knows there are people who take a great amount of joy in making Littles the subject of their jokes, of cutting them down, of taking advantage of them. He’s perfectly aware of that reality, he’s felt it first-hand from people like Howard. He’s seen the ‘miracle cures’, the degrading way little characters are often portrayed in movies. He _knows_. 

If he doesn’t tell the Avengers, they might wake up one day and hear it from a gossip magazine.

They won’t judge him. They didn’t judge Sam or Nat, just accepted them without any remarks or needling. But Tony is so used to being a public figure, a polished image for the press, so used to having his personal life splayed out across magazine spreads like it’s reality TV. He doesn’t think he can have this out there so soon, and the more people know, the more chance it has of getting out. 

“I’ll think of something,” he says finally, because he doesn’t think he can handle a conversation like that today. 

The elevator comes to a stop at his floor, and Steve takes a hesitant step forward, lingering in the entryway. “You planning on getting any sleep?”

“Sleep is pretty much all I’ve been getting for the past two days,” he says, as he drapes his jacket over a chair. 

“You had a concussion.”

“Semantics.”

“Tony—“

“It’s my fault,” he says suddenly, turning away from the elevator. 

He hears Steve take a few steps in the room, hears the mechanical hum of the elevator doors sliding shut again. 

“What is?”

“Fury wasn’t lying about my information not being accessed. It’s my fault that Davis knew what he knew.”

“...How do you know that?”

Tony swallows once, then twice, running his fingers along the back of the couch, mostly for something to do. “Because I know how Davis figured out my classification.” 

“How?” 

He hesitates, directs his gaze toward the full-length windows that span his floor, the fluffy white clouds that drift peacefully across the sky. “Before my classification test, I…” he takes a steadying breath, “I was looking into methods of, well, faking the test. I had JARVIS on it, too, but I knew he’d keep some of the, you know, riskier methods away from me, so I looked into it myself. Never hurts, right?” 

Tony doesn’t even think about turning around, because he’s already imagining the disappointed look that’s undoubtedly etched into Steve’s features, and he’s never been good at facing his disappointment, no matter how much he acts indifferent to it. 

“There were these...experimental drugs.”

Steve exhales audibly. 

“They were supposed to bypass those screening tests they do, before a classification test, to make sure you haven’t taken anything. Suppress headspace, make you seem like a baseline inside and out. The catch, of course, was the, uh, not insignificant fatality rates that JARVIS uncovered with a bit more digging. And the, well, general impossibility of it all, but I was pretty desperate at the time. If either Davis or AIM was in any way associated with _that_ particular scheme, or if whoever it was managed to uncover my information, then, I suppose certain conclusions can be drawn about why Tony Stark wants to fake a classification test.” 

The silence that follows is deafening. Tony finally gathers up the courage to turn. Steve looks stricken, expression caught somewhere between hurt and disbelief.

“Come on, Steve, I—“

“Jesus Christ, Tony.”

Well. Coming from Mister ‘I have a thing about not cursing in front of Littles’, _that’s_ certainly something. Tony’s mouth falls closed again with a sharp click. 

“I didn’t go through with it,” he says, voice elevated a little in defensiveness, “I had JARVIS forward their details to local law enforcement.”

He has a very strong hatred for anyone who takes advantage of Littles — there’s a reason a sect of the Maria Stark Foundation is very specifically geared towards charities centered around assisting vulnerable Littles — and once he’d snapped himself out of his desperation-induced fog, the decision was almost instantaneous. He’d forwarded the details and moved on, enough to forget about it, even. Until now.

“That was—“

“Stupid? Short-sighted? I _know_ that, Cap. You can spare me the lecture.”

“I’m not gonna lecture you—“

“Yeah? Well, what are you gonna do, then? Put me in time out or something? I know what I’m doing, I can handle myself, just because I got a little desperate—”

“I never said you don’t know what you’re doing, Tony. I know you can handle yourself.”

Tony doesn’t realise just how much pent-up frustration is surging up inside his chest until he takes a brief moment to look down at the iron-grip he has on the back of a chair, knuckles turned white with it. He relaxes his hold and steps away.

“Alright. So what _are_ you thinking, then?”

“I’m _thinking_ , that you’ve had a stressful few days, and that some sleep would do you good before we talk about any of this.” 

Steve is purposefully keeping his distance, still lingering by the elevator, and his voice is so steady, so calm, that Tony almost wishes it _weren’t_ , wishes Steve would just snap back at him, because he _deserves_ it, for being so careless. 

“I feel fine, Cap. I know you have instincts and all but—“

“If I gave into my instincts right now I’d be wrapping you in blankets and making sure you stayed in your bed until you’re healed and rested. This, right here? This is me looking out for a teammate. For a _friend_.”

Tony deflates at that, feels the fight drain from his shoulders, his posture slacken. He knew the stress of the past few days was bound to catch up to him at some point, but it still shocks him when he sways forward a little, almost listless. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Steve reaches him in a few easy strides and sweeps him up into a hug, which has Tony sputtering a little in surprise, but otherwise melting into it. The longer he relaxes into the embrace, into the warmth that Steve radiates, the more his thoughts start to slow down. He feels the edges of his consciousness blur, feels an almost floaty feeling engulf him, slowly but surely. 

“Steve…” the word is muffled slightly, but he really doesn’t want to move.

“You know I’m not gonna force you to do anything you don’t want to, right?” 

“I know,” he says, because he does. He trusts Steve. 

There’s a pause. 

“Do you think maybe it’s time for another drop?” 

Tony stiffens, and Steve must feel it, because he runs a hand up and down his back. He knows his little headspace is encroaching, it’s a fuzzy feeling he’s well-versed in recognizing by now. Still, his hackles raise at the words, and he draws back.

“It’s only been a few days.”

“You’re allowed to spend time in your headspace as you need it.” 

“But I _shouldn’t_ need it. Not so soon.”

“Would it help?”

“That’s not the point, Cap.” 

“It is to me,” Steve says, all earnest, “I like taking care of you. Some days are gonna be more stressful than others, and it’s gonna affect how big you’re feeling. There’s nothing shameful in that.”

Tony swallows. He knows they have AIM to deal with, he knows there are about a thousand different countermeasures he could be getting a start on, he knows there’s so damn much to _do_ , so much paperwork and...general Big things. 

Maybe, _maybe_ if he lets himself drop now, he’ll be in a clearer head when he resurfaces, and he can actually be productive, instead of constantly pushing back against the headspace that wants to creep its way into his thoughts.

“You really don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind at all,” he confirms.

Tony hesitates for a few moments longer, before raising his arms to be picked up. Steve’s expression brightens, and he wastes no time in lifting him off the ground, settling him on his hip. He rests his head on Steve’s shoulder, lets his eyes fall shut, and suddenly it’s like a floodgate opens, that floaty feeling from earlier returning about tenfold and clouding his brain. Dropping is still a little scary at first, but he can feel Steve’s arms around him, holding him steady. Steve, who hasn’t ever given him any reason to feel unsafe while he’s in headspace. 

The drop itself is surprisingly quick, compared to what it usually is. Between hazy blinks almost, his thoughts slow right down, to the point where the only thing on his mind is Steve’s gentle humming, and the soft sway back and forth as he walks. 

“Alright, let’s get you changed and into some of your comfy new clothes,” Steve says, as he carefully sets Tony down on his bed. Not his bed, actually. _A_ bed. The bed in the spare bedroom, to be exact. He directs his gaze toward the floor, where plastic tubs sit, full of the things they’d purchased a few days...a week? Half a week? Half a week ago. Not all of it has arrived yet, and they haven’t had a whole lot of time to organize much of it.

“Cap onesie?” he asks quietly, wrapping his arms around himself. 

“You want the cap onesie, baby? We can do that.” 

He watches as Steve sorts through one of the tubs, before pulling out the Captain America onesie, complete with a shield and everything. Tony is fixated, eyes wide as he reaches out. Steve smiles and holds it out to him, laughing when Tony’s eyes grow bigger as he smooths a hand over the fabric.

“Soft?”

“Soft,” he confirms, with an approving nod. 

He lets out a whine when the onesie is set aside, but Steve shushes him and picks him up from the bed, giving his thigh an affectionate pat. “Let’s get you into a diaper first, huh? So you can take a quick nap without any accidents.” 

Tony relents, but his gaze is glued to the onesie until he physically can’t see it anymore. It’s so _soft_. 

“‘S...mine?” he asks, squirming a little in Steve’s arms to face him. 

“Yeah, bunny, it’s all yours.”

He smiles, which has Steve smiling too, and settles, allowing himself to be lowered down onto a changing table without much fuss. His jeans are swapped out for a diaper, and he sits up the moment it’s fastened in place, squirming to get down. Steve helps him down with a soft laugh, and Tony tugs him along toward the spare bedroom, because he has a _onesie_ now.

Tony lifts his arms so that Steve can pull his shirt up over his head. He picks up the onesie, holding it out for Tony to step into, and he stumbles a little in his haste, grip tightening momentarily on Steve’s arm, but he gets his legs and arms through without too many problems.

He tries to close the buttons, and lets out a huff when that fails, fingers slow and uncoordinated. Steve steps forward to help him, and Tony can barely contain a bright smile when the final button is done up.

“Wait a second,” Steve says, with a faux-frown, “how did Captain America get in here?” 

Tony giggles, delighted, and raises his arms to be picked up. “S’ got shield. For—for bad guys. Goes li’e...li’e…” he raises his arm and makes a throwing motion, like a frisbee, and Steve laughs as he scoops him up into his arms.

“That’s perfect, sweetheart. Do you think maybe Captain America needs a sidekick? Say, oh, I don’t know, a certain bear?”

Tony smiles. “Cap bear?”

“That’s right! And maybe Cap Bear can even get a friend?” he says, as he approaches a smaller tub, containing a few new stuffies. 

Tony looks between Steve and the tub for a moment, before letting his gaze roam over the stuffies. He stops in his tracks at the sight of a bumble bee with big, cute eyes. A shy smile spreads itself across his face.

“Da’ one?” he asks hesitantly, pointing.

“The bee?”

He nods, and squeaks when Steve bends a little to pick the stuffie up, clinging on for dear life. 

Steve smiles apologetically. “Sorry, baby. Should’ve warned you, huh?” 

He flies the bumble bee through the air before directing it into Tony’s awaiting arms, making a buzzing sound effect that has Tony giggling. He cuddles the bee close to his chest.

“Alright, we haven’t gotten the chance to get your new crib all set up yet, but I’ll stay with you in bed for naptime, so I’ll be there when you wake up. Is that okay?” 

Tony nods, before hesitating a moment. “Paci?”

“Of course, sweetheart, we’ll get you a paci. I’ll tuck you in and then grab one of your new ones, how does that sound?”

“‘S good,” he says, in a whisper.

His blinks are slowing now, and Steve gives him a fond smile when he yawns and rubs at his eyes. He’s carefully tucked into bed beside his bumble bee, with soft blankets and pillows, and he lets out a content sigh, letting his eyes fall closed. The bed dips a few moments later, and he cracks an eye open to watch as his Cap Bear is tucked in on his other side. 

“I’ve got a pacifier here, Tony,” Steve croons, and Tony worms a hand out from under the covers, accepting the blue pacifier with a quiet ‘thank you,’ and slipping it into his mouth. 

With the pacifier in his mouth and the warmth cocooning him, it isn’t hard to succumb to the sleep tugging at his eyelids.

~

He has a nightmare about cruel, grey eyes and a television screen with his classification written across it in big, bold letters. There’s a pale face that swirls in out and of focus, and flashes of light and sound, of crowds swarming the Manhattan streets, of gazes that burn with disapproval. Tony jerks awake in a panic, hands gripping at his head and breaths coming out short and fast. He takes in a shuddering breath and looks around the room, gasping when he finds that it’s empty. 

Steve had left him. Steve realized that everyone hates him now and he’s decided that _he_ should hate him too. 

Tears cloud his vision as he gathers his bear and his bee to his chest, squeezing them tight as hitching sobs work their way up his throat.

“Young sir?” 

He slowly raises his gaze toward the ceiling. “Jarvis?” 

“Captain Rogers has not left. I have informed him of your distress, and he’s on his way now.”

His sobs taper off a bit in the face of his confusion. “Steve?”

“Indeed, young sir.”

The door opens, slowly, as though whoever’s opening it is making an effort to generate the least amount of noise possible.

“Tony?” 

He buries his face back into his bumble bee, and he hears footsteps pad along the carpet toward his bed. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve says, voice soft, “I’m sorry that I left, I know I said I’d be there when you woke up. That’s my fault. I was just getting a few things organized.”

Tony sniffles and peeks up at him from where his face is buried, eyes watery and lashes clumped together with tears. “Ha’e me?” 

“ _Hate_ you? Sweetheart, of course not, why would I hate you?”

“Ev’yone ha’es me? ‘Vengers?”

Steve sits down on the bed, wrapping an arm around Tony’s shoulders and gently drawing him into his side. “The Avengers could never hate you. Never. I promise.”

Tony takes a deep breath, reaching blindly for his pacifier and slipping it into his mouth, sucking adamantly. Steve runs a hand up and down his arm, presses kisses to his hair. 

“I’m very sorry I wasn’t here, Tony. It won’t happen again, okay?”

“Steve was...was gone,” he sniffles, shifting a little to climb onto Steve’s lap.

Steve pulls him in, resting his hands on the small of his back. “I know, bet that was scary, huh? But I’m here now. It’s okay.” 

They linger there for a while, Steve rocking him gently back and forth, until Tony draws back and wipes at his eyes. 

“How about we get you something to eat? Then, if you’re feeling up to it, I’ve got some toys in the living room you can play with.” 

“Stawbewies?” he says around his pacifier.

“We can get you some strawberries,” he confirms, “but can I check your diaper quickly before we go?”

Tony nods. Steve briefly lowers a hand down to his diaper and hums, “okay, looks like you need a quick change, but we’ll get you strawberries afterward okay?” 

He keeps his stuffies clutched tightly to his chest during the change, rubbing his cheek against the bear’s soft fur whenever he feels panic begin to tighten in his chest.

Cartoons are playing at a low volume on the TV when they enter. Steve sets him down on the rug and he observes the blocks and hot wheels before him warily for a moment, before crawling his way over. He sits his bear and his bumble bee down so that they can see, and picks up one of the cars, running it along the ground and flipping it in mid-air, so it lands squarely on one of the blocks. 

Tony looks up at Steve, smiling just a little around his pacifier, and Steve smiles back encouragingly. “You like that one, huh?”

“Blue,” he says. 

“Blue is very nice,” Steve affirms with a nod, “will you be okay here for a few minutes while I go cut up some strawberries for you?” 

Tony nods absently, attention already drawn to a robot toy with various buttons on it, equipped with legs that can retract and become wheels. He crows in delight, reaching for it and pressing the buttons where the robot’s hands are, eyes widening when that produces a sound like a launching rocket. 

Steve chuckles. “Okay. I’ll be right back, Tony.” 

He can’t remember the last time he got to play with toys — Howard had thrown his away by 2, after which Jarvis managed to sneak him the occasional teddy — but he _can_ now, without worrying that someone will catch him. 

When Steve returns it’s to the sight of an utterly fascinated Tony, who presses a button, giggles, then presses that same button a few more times before moving onto another one. He walks the robot along the ground, towards the blocks, and lifts it up into the air so that it comes crashing down and sending the blocks tumbling. 

“Hey, bunny,” he greets, as he settles down on the rug, “I’ve got some strawberries here.” 

Tony looks up, gaze caught between the strawberries and the robot, conflict written into the crease of his eyebrows. 

“After you’ve had something to eat you can keep playing with Mr.Robot,” Steve promises, which seems to be enough coaxing for Tony to crawl over, setting the robot on Steve’s lap and reaching for the bowl of strawberries. Steve makes quick work of attaching a clip to Tony’s pacifier, so that it doesn’t fall.

“Wobot,” Tony says, as he takes Steve’s hand, guiding it towards the buttons. 

Steve smiles. “Have you given the robot a name yet?” he asks, as he presses the button beneath his fingers, producing a lasering noise. 

Tony pauses. “...Wall-E?” 

A confused look plays over Steve’s features, but his expression clears quickly. “Oh! Like Wall-E from the movie?” 

Tony nods and brings a strawberry slice to his mouth.

“You like that movie, huh?”

He nods again. “Has wobots.” 

“Maybe we could watch it later, then, before dinner,” Steve suggests. 

“Wall-E see Wall-E?”

“Wall-E can see Wall-E,” Steve confirms, smiling.

Tony smiles back, picking Wall-E up and clambering onto Steve’s lap. He finishes his strawberries and lets Steve wipe down his hands, so that he doesn’t get his toys all sticky. Then, he leans back against Steve’s chest and carefully explains to him what each button on the robot does, moving onto the hot wheel cars and eventually the blocks. Steve, for his part, nods along with a fond smile, even when he visibly struggles to understand some of the babbling. 

Eventually, Tony’s attention is pulled away by the TV, where some powerpuff girl re-runs are playing. Steve turns up the volume, and they both make themselves comfortable on the couch. He gives it about an hour before switching the TV off and setting him up with a wooden jigsaw puzzle instead, which has Tony pouting initially, because _powerpuff girls,_ but he quickly becomes entranced again.

Blues fade to oranges outside, and the afternoon light gives way to dusk. Steve sketches a few outlines for some drawings, while Tony plays absent-mindedly with Wall-E, pacifier bobbing in his mouth. As he grows more restless, his squirming increases, until Steve suggests that they start on dinner and he perks up. That’s something he can help with.

“Help?”

“You can help, baby,” Steve confirms, as he gets up from the couch. 

He holds his arms out and Tony gladly walks into them, keeping a tight grip on Wall-E as he’s lifted onto Steve’s hip. 

“So,” says Steve, “I’m not so good with complicated things, but I know you like carrots, so maybe I can steam some carrots, and I can make some mashed potato and some chicken?” 

Tony nods eagerly. “Cawwot is owange, like, like the car,” he says, approvingly, as he points out an orange hot wheel car. 

“That’s right! And Wall-E has orange buttons right here, see,” says Steve, as he gestures toward the robot’s chest. 

Tony gasps. “Owange!”

He babbles about the power-puff girls on their way to the kitchen, about how they fight bad guys just like Captain America, about how Professor Utonium is a scientist just like Bruce, and Steve’s smile seems almost permanently etched into his face as he listens, setting Tony down onto the counter and flitting about the kitchen for various ingredients. 

“You’re a very chatty baby today, aren’t you?” he coos, as he sets about chopping up some carrots. 

Tony giggles. “Chatty? ‘S Bubbles?”

“Just like Bubbles,” Steve confirms, with a fond smile, “now, once I’m done chopping the carrots, how about you help me put them in the steaming basket, huh?” 

He nods and swings his legs a little. He can do that. He can be helpful.

It’s about another half hour until dinner is ready, and Tony fumblingly helps in setting the table for two. Steve leans over to cut his chicken and his carrots into small pieces, and Tony’s gaze drifts towards the TV as they eat, where cat videos play, courtesy of JARVIS. 

Later, once the dishes are all cleared and Steve has helped him brush his teeth, he sets Tony down on the couch and kneels down in front of him. 

“Is it okay if I do a bit of a check up, Tony? Just to make your head is still okay after that bump you had?”

Tony nods, and Steve runs a hand through his hair, gently tilting his head a little to get a look at his eyes, gaze flicking between them for a few moments. He must be satisfied, because he moves on, checking his head with deft fingers and even checking in on his ears, which confuses Tony ever so slightly, but he doesn’t want Steve to be worried about him, so he tries to stay as still as possible. After scanning over his face, he draws back.

“How does your head feel, sweetheart? Any ouchies?” 

He shakes his head. 

Steve hums, “and what about when you stand up? Do you feel fuzzy at all?”

Tony considers this for a moment. “Feels...fuzzy. Like...like…” he trails off, frustrated that he can’t find the right words.

Steve rests a gentle palm on his forehead, “like something pressing down?”

He nods. “Pwessing.”

“Alright. And what about your tummy? Not upset?”

Tony shakes his head, giggling when Steve smiles and gives his stomach a quick tickle.

“Okay, sweetheart. Just tell me if your head starts hurting, or if you feel super fuzzy. Can you do that for me?”

He can do that, so he nods, and Steve gives his shoulder an approving squeeze as he stands, sitting down on the couch beside him.

“Okay! I think it’s time to watch Wall-E, huh?”

Tony crows in triumph, which pulls a laugh from Steve. He reaches over for a blanket and carefully drapes it over both of them, raising his arm a little so that Tony can shuffle in close and snuggle right up to him.

He tries to stay awake for the entirety of the movie, he really does, because he _loves_ Wall-E, but towards the end his eyes slide shut of their own accord, and his pacifier slips. He whines in protest when Steve goes to pick him up, attempting to squirm out of his grip so that he can stay on the couch and finish the movie, but Steve just huffs, amused, and says, “we can finish it another time, baby. It’s time for bed now.”

Tony relents, only because he can feel his eyes drifting shut again, and the last thing he remembers is being held against a warm chest. He sighs, snuggles closer, and gives into the lull of sleep. 

~ 

He wakes up the following morning feeling little, thoughts still slow and fuzzy, which is...unusual, to say the least. He usually wakes up from prolonged periods of sleep in his big headspace, something that was born mostly out of necessity. The one time he can remember waking up little, JARVIS had to coax him out of his headspace so that he could get to a meeting, and it wasn’t a particularly pleasant experience.

Steve is beside him this time when he wakes though, flicking through a report, hair mussed and shirt on inside-out, which makes a pretty domestic picture. It’s a cloudless morning, the sky is an expansive stretch of blue, and sun streams inside unhindered, warming the bed sheets. He shifts a little, blinking blearily up at Steve, who regards him with an affectionate smile. 

His pacifier didn’t stray too far this time, at least, and he pops it into his mouth as he stretches out his limbs. Steve looks surprised for a moment, but he recovers quickly.

“Hey, sweetheart.” 

“Hi,” he says through a yawn, bringing the duvet up to his chin and snuggling into his pillow. 

Steve chuckles, and the bed dips a little as he shifts, laying down with his head propped up on his hand. “Still feeling tired?” 

Tony shakes his head. “Comfy.” 

“Comfy, huh? Well I’m sure you’ll be comfy in one of your new onesies, won’t you?”

He perks up immediately at that, raising his head from the pillow. “Onesie?” 

“That’s right. Once I get you into a new diaper and we get your teeth brushed, I promise you can choose any one you want.” 

Tony very much accepts those terms, so he stretches again, rolls over, and carefully climbs off the bed. He ends up choosing a black cat onesie, because cats are cute, and this one has bright green eyes. Plus, it has nice soft paws.

He situates himself on the couch while Steve sets about making them smoothies — strawberry for Tony, and banana for him. He has a blue crayon in hand, and he’s attempting to draw Wall-E on a notepad Steve gave him, outlining the drawing like he’s seen Steve do so many times. Cartoons play on the TV, but his attention is drawn to his careful study of Wall-E, of his rectangular form, of his limbs and his retractable wheels. His tongue sticks out a little in concentration as he attempts to transfer those details to paper. 

“How’s my little artist doing?” Steve asks, as he sits down beside him with a tablet, holding a Star Wars sippy cup in one hand and a glass in the other. 

Tony beams as he accepts the sippy cup, his ‘thank you’ coming out a little garbled around his pacifier. He removes it from his mouth, letting it dangle. “‘S Wall-E.”

Steve’s eyes land on the notepad, and a smile spreads across his face. “It is! That’s very good, Tony, you even got his orange buttons in there.”

“Owange,” he agrees, as he examines his drawing, sipping at his smoothie. 

Steve seems a little hesitant, Tony can feel the tension in his shoulders when he leans against him, and it causes him to draw away with a faint frown. He reaches up and clumsily pats the side of Steve’s face, in a sort ‘there, there’ motion.

“Scared?”

Steve seems confused for a moment. “Scared?” he echoes questioningly. 

“Steve scared?”

His expression relaxes, and he leans back into the couch with a huffed laugh. “No, I’m not scared. I just…” he hesitates, “I just wanted to ask you something, that’s all.”

Tony nods and takes another sip of his smoothie. Grown-ups are silly sometimes. Why would Steve feel scared to ask him a question?

“I was just...well, while you were big, you told me you were okay with meeting Bucky in your headspace. Is that still okay now? I promise he’ll be on his best behavior.”

He considers this for a beat or two, eyebrows furrowing a little. “Bucky ‘s good?”

“He’ll be very good,” Steve promises, “but you can still say no if you want, sweetheart.”

“S’ow...s’ow Bucky Wall-E?” 

Steve smiles and gives his shoulder a brief squeeze. “I’m sure he’d love to see Wall-E.” 

Tony nods approvingly. “So’w Bucky Wall-E.” 

Steve seems heartened by that response, smile brightening as he pulls his phone from his pocket and taps something out that Tony can’t quite see. He shrugs and returns to his drawing, coloring in the buttons with an orange crayon and sipping at his smoothie. 

“JARVIS?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers?”

“Would you be able to make sure Bucky has access to this floor? Just him, though.”

“Of course.” 

Tony hesitates, before climbing onto Steve’s lap, leaning back against his chest and continuing his coloring. He knows Bucky is good, but it still makes him feel a little safer to be as close to Steve as possible. For his part, Steve just hooks his chin over Tony’s shoulder and continues to read from his phone. Grown-up stuff probably.

He slips his pacifier back into his mouth once he’s done with his smoothie and sets his sippy cup down on the coffee table. The elevator doors open just as he’s getting comfortable, which startles him ever so slightly, but Steve runs a soothing hand up and down his arm to settle him again. 

Bucky isn’t usually one to let his guard down but at that moment he seems particularly hesitant, like he’s stepping into fragile territory and he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. His gaze finds Tony, who’s already eyeing him warily, and a smile tugs at his lips, the kind of smile he gives Sam or Nat when they’re being endearing.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greets, and there’s a hint of encouragement in his tone, like he’s already picked up on the hesitance that practically rolls off Bucky in waves. He probably has, to be fair. 

Bucky approaches, eyes flitting between the cartoons on the TV and the toys that Tony and Steve had packed up the previous day, sitting in a plastic tub. 

“Hey, Stevie,” he returns. He meets Tony’s gaze with another smile. “Hey, Tony,” he adds, in what’s practically a croon. 

The soft tone puts Tony at ease, and he offers Bucky a shy smile around his pacifier. “Hi.” 

“Do you wanna show him Wall-E, sweetheart?” Steve asks, pressing a quick kiss to the side of his head. 

Tony nods eagerly and reaches over to grab Wall-E, offering him up to Bucky. Bucky takes it carefully, like he’s being offered the most precious thing in the world

He sits down beside Steve, examining the toy. “This is a very nice robot, darlin’. I really like his wheels.”

Tony’s smile morphs into a beam. He turns to face Bucky fully, taking out his pacifier and pointing toward Wall-E’s chest. “Owange.” 

“Orange,” Bucky confirms, returning the smile, “just like your pretty drawing over there.”

Tony glances down at the aforementioned drawing, and he shyly offers it to Bucky for closer examination. “‘S got owange, like, like the car, and like cawwots,” he says, gesturing down to the tub of toys.

Steve wraps his arms around Tony’s waist, and Tony can feel the smile that’s pressed into his hair. 

“This is a very nice drawing. Stevie’ll have to put it up somewhere.” 

“Up?” he parrots, glancing back at Steve, who nods encouragingly. 

“Of course, bunny. We can put it up. Just gotta find a nice space for it.” 

Tony is _delighted._ He’s really not used to people being proud enough of his creations to show them off like that. Howard didn’t give anything he created a second glance unless it was something ‘useful’, and even then he made sure Tony knew every little thing that was wrong with it. 

He wriggles a little to get out of Steve’s embrace, squishing himself in between him and Bucky.

It’s only then that he realizes Bucky is holding a book in his hands, and he must see the way Tony’s gaze slants because he chuckles and holds it up for him to look at.

“Sam likes this one when he’s feeling a bit smaller,” he says, “do you wanna take a look at it?”

Tony nods, still fixated on the soft patch of brown fur on the front cover. Bucky sets it down so it’s half on his lap and half on Tony’s. Tony reaches out, but hesitates, looking back at Steve for confirmation.

“Go ahead, baby,” he encourages, which is all Tony needs to turn toward the book and pet the fur, gasping audibly at how soft it is. 

“You really know the way to his heart, Buck,” Steve quips, smile fond as he watches Tony squee over the fur.

“Told ya I knew just the thing to bring,” he says, lips quirking up at the corners.

“‘S got more soft?” 

“Sure does, pal. Whatta you say, want me to read it to you?” 

Tony nods and shuffles in closer. Bucky looks hesitant as he lifts the book upright with his metal hand, but Tony isn’t fazed at all, just looks up at him with wide, eager eyes. Steve reaches over behind Tony to briefly lay a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and they must have one of those silent grown-up conversations they enjoy so much, because not a word has been exchanged by the time Steve retracts his arm again and wraps it around Tony’s shoulders.

Tony gets so wrapped up in the book, filled with facts about various dog breeds, that he doesn’t notice when Steve briefly gets up to putter about in the kitchen, returning with a conflicted twist to his mouth. Bucky’s voice is soft, a little rough around the edges, but _soft_ , and he knows Steve trusts Bucky, so he doesn’t feel scared when he realizes that Steve is standing in front of them now, instead of sitting by his side. 

“Tony, will you be okay here with Bucky if I go down to the communal floor to get some milk real quick?”

He looks up at Bucky, who smiles encouragingly, then back at Steve. He nods.

“Okay. I promise I’ll be back real soon, alright?” 

“Awight.” 

Bucky huffs, amused. “He’s pickin’ up your ‘alright’ habit already.” 

“It’s not a habit,” Steve argues, but his tone is light, so Tony knows he isn’t really mad. 

He heads towards the elevator, and Tony’s attention is drawn to the book again.

“Now, where were we up to,” Bucky murmurs, metal hand coming up briefly to skim over the lines. 

As he draws his hand away, the metal plates shift, and Tony watches the movement with rapt attention. 

“Okay, so, now we’ve got—” he pauses, seemingly realizing that Tony’s eyes are no longer on the book or the soft fur. “Uh. Right, I’ll just,” he goes to switch hands, so his metal hand is holding the book upright again instead of flesh and blood hand, but stops short when Tony lets out a giggle. 

He looks between his metal arm and Tony for a few long, considering moments. Then, he smiles, amused. “Like that, huh? Probably shouldn’t be surprised, big you’s always lookin’ for excuses to upgrade it.”

When Steve returns just a few minutes later, it’s to the sight of a happily squeeing Tony, giggles pouring from his mouth as he watches Bucky’s metal arm. Bucky looks up at the sound of the elevator, and his smile takes on a sheepish edge. 

“He likes the way the plates move and lock into place,” he explains, demonstrating by rotating his wrist a bit, resulting in another delighted noise from Tony.

Steve’s smile is fond as he approaches, dropping a kiss to Tony’s head. “What do you say to some sandwiches and some warm milk, sweetheart?” 

Tony looks a little reluctant to tear his gaze away from Bucky’s metal arm, but he nods absently. “P’ay after?”

“Play after,” Steve confirms, “maybe you can show Bucky some of your other new toys, huh?”

He nods, so eagerly that the hood of his onesie falls over his eyes, which starts up a fresh wave of giggles. 

“Giggly baby,” Steve coos, as he gently pulls the hood away from over Tony’s face. He directs a look at Bucky as he heads for the door, one that practically screams _‘dont ruin his good mood or else’_ , and Bucky raises his hands in mock surrender.

“We’ll be fine, Stevie. Won’t we, darlin’?”

Tony nods again, eyes once again fixated on his metal arm. Bucky lets out an amused huff.

“Least I got this unsightly thing going for me.”

Tony frowns. He doesn’t necessarily understand what ‘unsightly’ means in this headspace, but he knows what that tone means. He raises a hand and pats Bucky’s arm. 

“Good,” he insists.

Bucky opens his mouth, before promptly closing it. He smiles, and gives Tony’s hair an affectionate ruffle.

“Alright, buddy.” 

The look Steve sends them is one of pure warmth. 

He makes for the entryway again, but before he can even step foot into the hall, a soft voice stops him in his tracks.

“Daddy?” 

Steve turns, and Tony is looking at him with wide, brown eyes, fingers twisted up in his onesie. A beaming smile spreads across his face. 

“Yeah, baby?” 

“Honey? Wi’h...wi’h milk? P’ease?”

“Of course, sweetheart, anything.” 

Bucky is looking between them, and he seems to recognize that there’s some significance here, even if Tony just offers Steve a smile and goes back to his casual observation of his metal arm. Steve lingers there in the doorway for a moment or two, before blinking himself out of his daze, turning to make his way to the kitchen.

“Startin’ to see why Stevie gets all defensive boutcha,” Bucky admits. 

Tony looks up. He hesitates, before saying, “book?” and Bucky obliges him, flipping through a few pages and picking up where they left off. 

~ 

Tony wakes up from his afternoon nap feeling big, and oddly...refreshed? Is this why people get an adequate amount of sleep every night? He feels like he’s had about two coffees. Not that that stops him from getting another, of course, once he disposes of his diaper and gets out of his onesie. 

He notices Steve’s form out on the balcony upon entering the living space, silhouette mostly shrouded in darkness, but illuminated by the city lights. He slips on a hoodie that’s draped over one of the chairs, pushing the sliding glass door aside and stepping out into the frigid November air. Steve turns when he hears Tony’s footsteps approach, and he offers him a small smile. 

“Hey.” 

“Hey, Cap. Brooding over the futility of existence again? I thought we agreed that doesn’t count as a pastime.” 

Steve huffs, turning his gaze back toward the sprawling Manhattan streets below. “Just appreciating the view.”

“It _is_ a nice one,” he says. 

Silence falls briefly. Tony takes a step forward and clears his throat. “If AIM has more planned…” 

Steve nods. “We’ll deal with it. From what I hear they started out as a sect of Hydra, and I think I know Hydra pretty well by now.”

“You’ve had your grievances,” Tony agrees.

“To put it lightly. We’ll get the drop on them if we have to. It’s tough, with a group like this, when recruitment is pretty much always happening, but…” he smiles wryly, “we’ve dealt with a lot worse than guys with good tech.” 

“Don’t forget the firebreathers. Though I _did_ take the liberty of having their freaky extremis experiments shut down. I generally prefer my enemies when they’re not glowing like firecrackers and regenerating like crazy.” 

“Agreed. The easier to subdue them the better,” he pauses, shooting Tony a sidelong glance, “we can’t take any chances with this, Tony. We’ll probably have to start meetings as soon as possible, so we’re all on the same wavelength. Have you thought about what you wanna tell the team?” 

Tony swallows. “Guess I have, quite literally, slept on it, huh? The only thing I know for sure is that I’d really prefer if they _didn’t_ find out my classification from some sensationalist news headline. That thing with Bucky before…” he clears his throat, averts his gaze, “it was, y’know, pretty good, all things considered. I think it’d be alright with the team too. I mean, I wouldn’t be surprised if Nat’s figured it out already, with all the spontaneous sleepovers we’ve been having.” 

Steve smiles a little, but it seems strained. “You shouldn’t have to tell them. Not if you don’t want to. Even if you think they already know.” 

“It’s not an ideal situation,” Tony agrees, “but I’ve never really been _opposed_ to telling them, per se. Just...old hang-ups. You know how it is.” 

“Well, you know I’ll be there, if you choose to tell them. I’ll probably hold a meeting tomorrow, get everyone up to speed. I’ll work around the, well, _finer_ points of our talk with Davis for the time being, and you can let me know how you’re feeling in the morning.” 

“You sure Bucky’s ‘I must protect Littles’ complex won’t kick in if you tell him about our chat with _that_ charming individual?” Tony asks, aiming for light-hearted. 

Steve laughs. “No, I’m not sure, actually, now that you mention it. Hell, I was one word away from breaking protocol when we left that room.” 

“Breaking protocol for little old me? Why, Mr.Rogers. Your noble, do-gooder instincts continue to astound me.”

Steve smiles and shrugs. “Punching out Hydra agents is pretty much second nature to me. I don’t mind spreading the love a little.”

At that, Tony laughs, bright and amused, and turns back toward the sparkling city lights. 

Silence falls again for a beat or two. 

“So uh,” Steve begins, and there’s a playful glimmer in his eyes now, visible even in the darkness, “I’m not sure if you remember, but—“ 

Tony cuts him off with an agonized groan. “Nope. I do _not_ want another word out of you, Cap. We’re not talking about anything that I may or may not have called you in headspace, that you, if we’re being honest here, can’t even really prove, so—“

“Aw, but Tony, it was so _cute_. You shoulda _seen_ yourself, all wide-eyed—“

“I _swear—_ “

“Looking up at me, asking for honey in your milk—“

“That—that’s it. Why do I put up with you? Someone remind me real quick, because I’ve definitely forgotten.”

“Aw, come on, even Buck thought it was adorable,” Steve grins, like a _bastard_ , but Tony likes that about him. 

“Look, I’m just throwing this out there, I’ve been working on this suit, _total_ upgrade from my current one, perfected prehensile tech, this _great_ donning system—“ 

“You know, little you’s a pretty big fan of building, too. _And_ robots.”

Tony glares, with not nearly as much heat as he wants, because he honestly likes that they can be casual about this sort of thing outside of his little headspace, but he’ll die before he admits to that aloud. 

Steve’s smile softens a little. “It _was_ very cute.” 

“Not weirded out or anything?” 

“Not at all. I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to call me that. It, well, means a lot.” He hesitates, before adding, “and Tony?” 

There’s a serious edge to Steve’s tone that has him looking over, curious.

“I know it might’ve just been things acting up in your headspace, but the team won’t hate you. Anyone who could possibly hate you just for your classification isn’t someone worth spending time around.” 

Tony believes him, funnily enough. On all counts. Which, in the grand scheme of things, is a pretty rare occurrence for Tony Stark. 

“Thanks, Cap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was very therapeutic to write, so i hope it was therapeutic to read too! 
> 
> (can u guess what my favourite show was when i was a kid? i mean i'm 18 and i still think its neat but we're talking obsession-level here)
> 
> throwing it out there that little!tony's favourite powerpuff girl is bubbles, purely because he likes blue


	9. the pact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no tw's that i can think of for this chapter ! some more happiness because life is hectic and this is how i cope

Tony is just the slightest bit ashamed to admit that the following night is lost to a frenzied bout of tossing and turning and squeezing his eyes shut against the thoughts that whirl around in his head, which spins through an endless cycle of reasons why he should or shouldn’t tell the Avengers about his classification. Eventually, it just becomes counterproductive, a spiraling loop rather than any semblance of reaching a decision, so he gets up and rubs at his burning eyes. 

Moonlight falls onto his bed through the thin slats of his blinds, and the sparkling city lights wink at him through the glass. His throat protests at every swallow, so he reaches for the water bottle he keeps on his bedside and takes a few long swigs before standing and gathering his bearings. 

Even after taking a shower, his skin is practically crawling with all of the jittery energy flowing through him. He knows how it will go if he lays back down — he’ll be teetering right on the verge of sleep, then a thought will crop up out of nowhere, leading his brain down an inescapable rabbit hole, and it’ll mark another night where rest successfully eludes him. 

So, he heads down to the communal floor instead. It’s not uncommon in the tower to catch a wayward superhero or two wandering about at night, either in one of the training rooms or the communal floor. With their various laundry lists of issues and their traumatized pasts, it’s pretty much inevitable that sleep becomes a difficult undertaking. Sometimes, they just co-exist, let the silence speak for them, but other times they’ll play a TV show, or sit around and talk into the early hours of the morning. It’s something that Tony can definitely get behind; he likes the anonymity that comes with night, likes the fact that nothing is really expected of them, not unless they receive a spontaneous call to assemble. 

When he arrives the TV is on, pale light pouring out into the darkened living space. Sam is rinsing a mug out in the kitchen sink, but he looks over when he hears the elevator. 

“Hey. Can’t sleep?” 

“Pretty much. What about you?”

Sam sets his mug on the drying rack. “Woke up a few hours ago,” he doesn’t add ‘from a nightmare’, but Tony hears it in the strain that winds through his tone anyway, “I was planning on laying down now, seeing if I can get some shut-eye before Cap’s meeting tomor—well, today.” 

Tony nods, and looks back over at the couch. Sam shuts off the kitchen lights, lingering by the doorway with an amused huff. 

“He’s watching one of those dramatized cooking shows. Won’t stop complaining about the food wastage.” 

“The judges take _one bite,_ ” says Steve, as he sits up, head appearing over the back of the couch. 

“I thought we agreed they probably eat most of it afterward,” Sam argues, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Still. It’s a lot of food.” 

“Probably about the amount you need a day to keep yourself going, Cap,” Tony quips.

“Man. That’s one of the only reasons I’d become a supersoldier.” 

“It becomes a chore after a while, trust me,” Steve tells him, craning his head to look at them now that there’s an ad break playing. 

“Maybe if I could get a temporary serum. That’d be cool.” He stifles a yawn with his hand. “Well, I’m gonna get back to bed. If you don’t see me in the morning I’m probably out cold.” 

Tony swings an arm over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Birdbrain, we’ll recruit Bucky if we have to.”

Sam groans. “He baby-talked me the other day until I got out of bed just so I could get away from him. That man is evil.”

Steve’s grin is visible even in the darkness, eyes practically luminous. “Say, that’s not a bad idea.” 

“Try me, Cap,” Sam warns, pointing an accusatory finger. 

Tony shifts, keeping strategically silent. 

“Okay. For _real_ this time, I’m gonna retire. I would say good night, but I think I’ll stick with ‘see you on the other side.’” 

“I’ll stop them from waking you up too early,” Tony promises, as Sam heads toward the elevator. 

“You’re the only person in this tower I trust.” 

“Good night to you too,” Steve calls, amusement lacing his tone. 

Tony approaches the couch as the elevator doors close. Steve is sitting upright now, so he grabs one of the blankets that’s draped over the armrest and settles down beside him, happily allowing himself to be drawn in by a casual arm around his shoulders. He’s always been tactile with the team but ever since Steve has become his caregiver, he seems marginally less hesitant about initiating contact between them, and Tony _thrives_ on it. With the chaos of the past week, he’d almost forgotten how nice it is to just sit with someone and share this with them, no expectations, no need to jump through hoops in order to justify it, frantic thoughts of ‘we’re just friends’ or ‘it’s just this once.’ It’s dark, the highrises surrounding them are lit from the ground up, and despite Manhattan’s usual nighttime bustle, a stillness blankets them that they couldn’t get during the day. 

“So what are you doing up?” asks Tony, as he slumps into Steve’s side, head landing gently on his shoulder.

Steve has that look on his face that’s usually paired with a shrug, but he doesn’t jostle Tony, just wraps his arm more solidly around him. “I don’t need a lot of sleep. I was gonna train when I woke up about an hour ago, but Sam was here so I kept him company instead.”

“Then you decided ‘hey, it’s 4 in the morning, why not watch a show that riles me up.’” 

“There’s so much _food_.” 

“Sort of the point, Cap.”

“Yeah, but. Just— _look_ at it.” 

Tony goes to pat his shoulder, but sort of ends up patting somewhere around his side. “I see it, Cap,” he placates. 

As the show draws on, he finds more and more tension easing from his body, until he’s virtually depleted of all the jitteriness that had been bothering him earlier. They throw comments out there while the show is playing, then revert to more subdued conversations during the ad breaks. Steve’s shirt is soft cotton, and he smells clean, like the expensive shampoo that Tony stocks the bathrooms with, that he _still_ hasn’t told Steve the price of. It’s all just...nice. 

“I’m gonna tell them,” he says, during one particular ad break, not even aware he’d come to the decision until he’d said it. 

Steve blinks at the non sequitur, but only for a moment before realization dawns on his face, gradual yet bright.

“Yeah?” 

Tony nods. “They won’t care. Well—they might be surprised, but they won’t care.” There’s a bitten back ‘right?’ at the end of that statement that must show on his face, because Steve nods like he heard it anyway. 

“They wouldn’t think of you any differently.”

Tony curls in closer, attention drawn away by the TV once more. “Is that girl crying over split cream? I mean. I get it. We’ve all been there. But.” 

“ _Have_ we all been there?” Steve asks, shooting him a look that’s somewhere between amusement and concern. 

“I got some wiring wrong once and threw the whole machine at a wall. Pretty sure it weighed a cool 200 pounds or something.” 

“I, uh. Won’t ask for the story behind that one.” 

“Probably for the best,” Tony agrees, “I’ve changed as a person since then. Plus, DUM-E would probably douse me, because he’s gotten it in into his code that sudden movements are a fire hazard.” 

“With your track record? I almost can’t blame him.” 

“You just like the fact that I have a robotic bodyguard down in the workshop,” he accuses. 

Steve grins. “One less job for me.” 

Tony huffs, but he’s comfortable, and the show is still playing, so he doesn’t throw up a token protest at Steve’s caregiving tendencies. 

He drifts between catching blurry snippets of the show and the hazy place between sleep and wakefulness, until dawn breaks and the sun spills over the horizon, streaking orange across the sky. At some point, Steve gets a hold of a tablet, and Tony watches through heavy-lidded eyes as he scrolls through what appears to be a newspaper archive of some kind.

As the morning draws on, the kitchen fills with the bustle of various team members, setting about making themselves breakfast. Tony hops up on the counter beside Nat and nurses a steaming mug of coffee, downing about half of it in a few large gulps. He smirks when Sam enters, looking disgruntled as Bucky follows him in with a smug look and a hand on the small of his back.

“In my defense,” says Tony, when Sam raises his eyebrows at him, “I _did_ stop Steve. Bucky just happened to slip my mind.” 

“He didn’t actively stop me,” Steve adds, lips quirking up in a smile, “he was just leaning on me and I didn’t want to disturb him.” 

“Are you kidding? That’s about as active as it gets. You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, laughing when Sam just offers him a flat look. 

Steve seems to gravitate toward him once he’s grabbed an apple and made himself some toast, leaning back against the counter. His side is pressed up against Tony’s thigh in a way that would seem almost casual to an onlooker, but Tony knows, just from the glances that Steve sends his way, that it’s meant more as a show of support. He almost wants to protest it, feels like he _should_ protest it, really, but he can’t deny the comfort it brings him, or the warmth that flows through him from that point of contact. Steve smiles, and it’s something about the easiness of it, the familiarity of it, that has Tony turning toward the others and saying “I have an announcement.” 

Virtually everyone’s eyes dart toward him, but Clint is the first to speak up. 

“Wait, _wait_ , I know what this is. You and Steve are dating, right?”

Steve chokes on his bite of toast. Tony grins, totally unperturbed.

“Well _shit_ , Barton, you got us. What gave it away?”

Clint scoffs. “More like what _didn’t_ give it away? The trips you two always go on? Definitely dates. Steve sleeps on your floor literally all the time, you two always come down to the communal floor together, Steve dotes on you like crazy, swear I heard him call you _sweetheart_ once, and—“ he must see the mirth sparkling in Tony’s eyes, because he pauses, before saying, “and you’re not dating, are you?”

Tony laughs outright, while Steve just shakes his head, a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth despite his obvious efforts to maintain some sense of seriousness. He purses his lips, and Clint gleefully ignores the warning look he receives. 

“No, wait, don’t tell me, I see what’s happening here. You got a friends with benefits type situation going on, that it?”

Sam gives him a bewildered look. “Why would they announce to us that they’re friends with benefits? Who does that?”

“I don’t _know_ , last time Tony gave a formal announcement it was to tell us that it’s DUM-E’s _birthday_ —“

Tony points a finger at him. “That was important and we all know it!” 

“I think we’re getting a bit derailed here,” Steve pipes up, ever the voice of reason, “how about we stop trying to guess what Tony’s _going_ to say and let him speak instead, huh?” 

Clint sighs, but relents. Tony can feel everyone’s gaze acutely, weighted now with expectation, like he’s been placed inside a microscope slide and carefully scrutinized through the lens. He’s used to it, he really is, and he barely feels it these days when there are hundreds of cameras on him, but for some reason there’s still nervousness bubbling up inside his gut, clawing its way out via small ticks, a tap of his fingers against the counter here, a hand along the back of his neck there. 

This shouldn’t be a big deal. It _isn’t_ a big deal. He’s just gotten himself so worked up over it now, because his mind may be fast when it comes to equations and numbers and calculations, but it’s equally fast when it comes to everything else, to the point where he feels like he might just burn up with all of the things he’s processing, the twitches in people’s expressions, the mechanical churning of the dishwasher, the exact amount of milliseconds that float by. It’s only been a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity.

“Uh. It’s, you know, not a huge deal or anything, just, uh. Life stuff. Whatever.” 

Steve presses a little more firmly into his side. 

“I’m a Little. There. No big deal. You may all go on with your lives now.” 

He feels a hand brush somewhere along the inside of his wrist, then Natasha is interlacing their fingers. Her palm is slightly calloused, likely from all the weapons she frequently handles, and there isn’t one hint of surprise in her expression, but Tony was expecting that if he was being honest with himself. 

“Shit. Have you considered a career in espionage?” Clint asks, “because I seriously didn’t see that coming.” 

Tony looks over just in time to catch Bucky cuffing him upside the head, grinning when Clint throws him a glare. 

“Pay the man a compliment and that’s what I get?”

“I appreciate it, Barton,” he says, “I am, in fact, alluring and mysterious.” 

“Hey, look, while we’re being honest here, if you were playing honeypot, I’d go for you.” 

It’s Steve’s turn to send him a sharp look now. Its effect is dampened slightly by Tony’s immediate bout of laughter, but it still has Clint raising his arms in surrender.

“Looks like I got the caregiver brigade on my back already.” 

Bucky says something that Tony doesn’t quite catch, because his focus is drawn toward Sam’s movement across the kitchen. He exchanges a significant look with Nat, who turns to address the others.

“Sam and I have business to discuss with Tony.” 

Tony looks between them, blinking. “We do? Oh, okay, looks like we do,” he says, as Nat jumps down from the counter. He jumps down too, and Nat steadies him with the hand that’s still interlaced with his own. 

He’s led toward the theatre room, which has walls that are completely soundproofed, and he raises an eyebrow in mild confusion. “Look, not that I’m accusing you of anything here, but this is a prime location for murder. Just putting that out there.” 

“With Steve right in the kitchen?” Sam asks, laughing, “he’d kill us before we could even _think_ about covering our tracks.” 

“I feel like, maybe, I _shouldn’t_ find the fact that Steve is the first line of defense between me and my brutal end reassuring,” he says, as Nat flicks the lights on and settles on one of the plush couches, bringing Tony along with her. Sam takes a seat on her other side. 

“So,” Nat begins, leaning back against the couch and crossing one leg over the other, “you’re a Little.” 

“Yeah,” Tony confirms slowly, glancing between them. A smile spreads itself across his face. “What, is there some kind of initiation ceremony I have to go through? Am I being hazed in my own tower? Because I feel like that’s against the rules. That definitely sounds like it should be against the rules.” 

“Now there’s an idea,” says Sam, grinning, “but nah. Nothing like that. We just have a pact going.” 

“A pact? Like a Little pact?” 

“A very important one,” Nat confirms, “it’s sacred.” 

“Do I get a membership card or something? Please tell me there are membership cards involved.” 

They exchange an amused glance. 

Sam shakes his head. “No membership card. We just have a promise to one another that we won’t share any embarrassing things we do or say during headspace to our respective caregivers. Or anyone else. It’s a secrecy thing.” 

Tony nods wisely. “Defending yourself against blackmail material. That’s smart.” 

“It’s not entirely effective,” Sam says, “but it’s saved my ass a few times.” 

“Alright. So no spilling on one another, is that what I’m hearing?” 

Nat nods. Tony holds out his hand for a handshake. 

“Pleasure doing business with you.” 

The meeting lasts about an hour and a half. Bucky may or may not crack the table when Steve recounts their conversation with Davis. He turns to Nat and asks her a question in Russian, tone sickly sweet, ‘w _ill you get me a visit with him?’_ Nat shakes her head and replies, _‘killing suspects is a no.’_ He gets the feeling that neither of them have the slightest clue he knows Russian. 

Tony presents them all with the data that JARVIS has already compiled in regards to possible AIM fronts, possible AIM ties that Davis may have, and the AIM technology that’s potentially in its development stages, supplemented by a few classified SHIELD files. Potential characteristics of an AIM-affiliated attack follow, predictions that align with patterns picked up on by JARVIS as well as SHIELD, and it goes on in that vein that until Steve announces that they’ll touch base again in a few days, or whenever they can get the details of their next mission ironed out. 

Afterwards, once they’re all gathered in the living space, spread out along the couches, Clint turns to him and says, “so. A Little, huh?” 

Tony raises his eyebrows. “Yeah. Treat me any differently while I’m not in headspace and I’ll have JARVIS mess with your hot water for three weeks straight.” 

Clint blinks. “Sam, how does it feel being the only Little in this tower who hasn’t threatened me?” he asks.

“I don’t need to threaten you,” Sam says pleasantly, popping a blueberry into his mouth. 

“...Why did that feel like a threat?”

“At least Tony didn’t bring any knives into the mix,” Bucky pipes up, sending Nat a pointed glance. 

She smirks. “What’s the matter, Barnes? Scared your knife collection doesn’t measure up?” 

“Over my dead—“

“Can I not get one day without our conversations turning to threats and knives and death?” Steve asks, in a tone that’s brimming with so much exasperation that Tony can’t help but get real ‘disappointed mother’ vibes from it. 

“What, so when you threaten Sam and I with no cartoons it’s fine, but when I threaten Bucky with knives, it’s not fine? Sam, does that seem fair to you?” Nat asks. 

“No, it doesn’t. Steve, I can’t believe you man. I really thought we had something there for a minute.”

Steve gives him a teasing smile. “Still your favorite superhero.” 

“Oh for god’s—“ he swivels to face Tony, arms folded over his chest, which has Tony spluttering. 

“Okay, first off, I _resent_ the fact that you turned to me so quickly, have I done nothing to earn your favor, birdbrain? Second off, I’d like to point out that Terminator over there was very much present for your little announcement a few weeks ago.”

Sam considers this for a moment before rounding on the man in question. “Bucky. I’m telling you right now, sleep with one eye open.” 

Bucky grins. “Aw, Daddy loves you too.” 

“ _Daddy_ needs to learn how to keep his damn mouth shut,” says Sam, but he still doesn’t rebuff the brief kiss that Bucky presses to his cheek, so Tony surmises that most of his indignance is for show. 

Steve watches the exchange with barely concealed fondness, before looking over at him. Tony feels a traitorous warmth bloom on his face as he pointedly directs his gaze elsewhere. 

~ 

There isn’t a whole lot of new information to work with over the next week or so, which is endlessly frustrating for Steve, but he tries not to let himself get caught up in it. He sits down with both Tony and Coulson at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters to coordinate their next mission, he attends his rescheduled event at the Children’s Hospital, and he tries not to feel too agitated about the lack of calls to assemble. It should be a good thing, he knows that, but radio silence has never been much of a comfort to him, and he can’t shake off the idea that he should be doing _more_ , somehow. 

It’s Friday at the very least, which generally means that the teams’ schedules will all be winding down, and that they can spend the evening together rather than just catch glimpses of one another throughout the day. Nat and Clint returned from a mission just a few hours ago, and Bruce returned from his month-long trip the previous day, which Tony was absolutely _thrilled_ over, vibrating with barely-contained excitement as he talked a hundred miles an hour about the nanotech he’d been experimenting with. In all of about 30 minutes, Steve was thoroughly reacquainted with the mental gymnastics required to even maintain a _semblance_ of keeping up with Tony’s feverish science talk. For his part, Bruce had followed along with ease, nodding calmly as he went about fixing himself a mug of tea. Steve decided that relaying the events of the past month could probably wait and slunk off to the training room, coaxing Bucky into going a few rounds with him. 

In short, Steve was under the impression that things were going about as well as they could in a world of gods and monsters and aliens. Tony told Bruce about his classification, so Steve doesn’t feel as though he’s walking a fragile line whenever he seeks Tony out to check up on how he was doing, doesn’t feel as though he has to cover up his affection, muffle it under a guise of one teammate caring about another. Then, on Friday afternoon, when red-tinged sunlight spills out over the horizon, signaling sunset, JARVIS asks him for a quick word. It isn’t _entirely_ unusual, but JARVIS isn’t usually so reluctant to speak with him while there are other team members around, so he’s just the slightest bit uncertain as he stands from the couch and enters the hallway. 

“There something going on, JARVIS?” he asks.

“Sir is currently in a great deal of distress, and I am unable to ascertain why. I believe he may have experienced a drop into his headspace.”

“A drop?” Steve asks. Tony has been in his headspace more regularly as of late, but he knows that involuntary drops can happen to any Little if they’re feeling particularly overwhelmed. He can’t help but think that a majority of the stressors they deal with Avengers could qualify, especially in conjunction with Tony’s SI projects. It wouldn’t be surprising if his headspace is harder to keep at bay now that he’s dropping once a week. 

“Indeed. He is currently in his workshop, but he has not enacted any protocols to inhibit access for Colonel Rhodes, Miss Potts, or you. Shall I take you to his floor?” 

“That’d be great,” he says, as he enters the elevator. He keeps a pacifier on him when he can, but he gets the feeling that having a few more of Tony’s comfort items wouldn’t hurt. 

“Are scans showing anything, JARVIS?” he asks, once he reaches Tony’s floor. He immediately sets about gathering his bear, his bee and a soft blanket. 

“Sir’s heart rate and blood pressure are elevated above normal levels, but I am not detecting any physical injuries. I have attempted to inform him that you are on your way, but he doesn’t appear to be hearing me.”

Steve nods, and it only takes about a minute of flitting about between rooms before he’s back inside the elevator, a diaper bag slung over his shoulder, carrying an armful of what is maybe, possibly, _slightly_ more than just two stuffies and a blanket, but Steve is nothing if not a tactician, and he wants all of his bases covered. 

He hears a string of heartbreaking whimpers the moment he steps foot inside the workshop, and the sharp sympathy that twists inside his chest has him moving faster than even he thought possible, dodging workstations and approaching the corner where Tony is wedged, his knees brought up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. Practically every cell in Steve’s body, every caregiver instinct he’s ever had, is _screaming_ at him to just scoop the clearly distressed Little into his arms, but he sets his armful aside and crouches down in front of Tony instead. A dazzling array of schematics surround them, and a welding torch looks almost hastily placed down on one of the worktables, a sheet of metal secured beside it. It seems as though Tony had every intention of returning to his projects, which has Steve smothering a wince. 

“Hey baby,” he says, keeping his voice calm and even, “can you tell me what’s wrong?”

Tony looks up, expression softened around the edges in a way that lets Steve know he’s definitely slipped into headspace. His gaze is glassy, unfocused, cheeks blotchy and red and stained with tears. Tony sniffles, takes a deep, shuddering breath, before breaking out into more heart-wrenching sobs. Steve places his hands on Tony’s arms, thumbs rubbing gentle circles into the skin.

“Can you look at me, sweetheart?” 

Tears are slipping their way down his cheeks, and he looks so downright _miserable_ that Steve feels his chest tighten. He does look up again from where he’s buried his face in his hands though, and it’s only then that Steve notices the pressure marks that are left behind on the sides of his face, angry and red. His hair is in disarray, golden-brown from the glaring remnants of daylight through the window, and he curls up further into his corner, chest shaking with the sobs that still rattle through his body. 

“I know you’re upset, baby, but you might make yourself sick. Do you think you can breathe with me?” 

Tony presses a hand to his mouth, but his gaze drops down to Steve’s chest, where he’s making a show of breathing in and out. His breaths still shudder on every inhale, but as time passes, they gradually even out. Steve keeps his touches as light as possible, smoothing up and down Tony’s arms. 

“You want your paci?” Steve asks, unable to keep the shock from his face when Tony shakes his head frantically.

“Alright, that’s okay, sweetheart. Do you wanna get somewhere more comfortable then? Maybe we can get you a nice, soft onesie, huh?” 

Tony shakes his head again, recoiling away from Steve’s touch and pressing himself further into the corner. 

“Want me to bring you some food then?” he asks, trying hard to keep the uncertainty out of his tone.

Tony curls further and further in on himself with every suggestion, tears welling up in his eyes all over again. Steve can’t help but feel just the slightest bit out of his depth — Tony isn’t normally fussy, and he really doesn’t want to resort to carrying him against his will. He chews at his bottom lip, eyebrows furrowing a little when Tony rubs at his chest with both hands, breaths coming out sharp and uneven. It’s when his sobs start to shatter, devolving into a throaty coughing fit, that Steve starts rubbing at his back. 

“Tony? Does your chest hurt?”

Tony nods, brown eyes wide and brimming with tears. “Hur’s Daddy.” 

Now is absolutely _not_ the time to melt over Tony calling him ‘Daddy’ again, especially when it seems that his headspace is skewed toward the younger side this time around, but Steve can’t help the way he softens, holding out his arms in invitation. He barely suppresses a sigh of relief when Tony doesn’t refuse, clambering onto his lap in a flurry of miserable whimpers. The cold from the hard polished stone beneath him is already beginning to seep through his jeans, but he pushes that to the back of his mind as his hands settle on Tony’s waist.

“Can I lift up your shirt very quickly to check for any ouchies, sweetheart?”

Tony sniffles and nods, reluctantly lifting his arms from where they’d wrapped around the back of Steve’s neck. Steve carefully raises his shirt with one hand, petting soothingly down Tony’s side with the other, and a wince twists across his face when he sees the inflamed, irritated area that surrounds the arc reactor. The skin where it’s embedded is an angry red, and it seeps out toward the edges of his chest. Steve remembers asking Tony whether having the arc reactor causes him any pain, but he had brushed off the question with a joke and a flippant ‘I’m a big boy, Cap.’ He hadn’t brought it up since then, and the sight before him makes him kick himself inwardly for it. 

“That looks very sore, baby,” he says, as he lowers Tony’s shirt and allows him to burrow into his neck, arms wrapped around his shoulders. He knows that Bruce is aware of Tony’s classification, but he wouldn’t feel right calling Bruce down here without having discussed it with Tony beforehand. 

Steve makes a sympathetic noise when Tony whines, rocking him gently back and forth. “I know, it hurts, doesn’t it? I’m gonna send Bruce a text and ask him what I can do to make you feel better, okay? I’ll get you something for your chest so it stops hurting, I promise.”

Tony nods into his neck and Steve shifts, carefully pulling his phone from his pocket without jostling the teary Little on his lap. He keeps his message brief, largely because he’s typing one-handed, and the position is a bit precarious. He thanks the high heavens that Bruce had been curled up with a book when he left him rather than down in the lab — he’s as good as dead to the world when he’s lost in an experiment, much like Tony during his workshop binges. 

A response comes through.

_Flare ups are normal with a device that’s so invasive, but it can be exacerbated by illness. I did see Tony coughing pretty badly this morning? So that could be causing some problems. I’ve got some cream you can rub around the area to soothe the irritation, some Tylenol should help with the pain. Make sure he keeps up his fluids and vitamins and monitor his temperature for any signs of fever, that could cause some extra discomfort._

_Is there any chance you could bring the cream down to the communal floor? I want to get him up to bed, but I might make a quick stop there._

_He’s met Bucky in headspace right? I can give him the cream, so he could give it to you._

_That’d be great. Thank you, Bruce._

He bounces his leg a bit, running his fingers gently through Tony’s hair. “Alright, before we go up to your floor and get you something for your ouchie, I think we should get you into a diaper. Is that okay? Then we can get you all warm and cozy with some blankets, hm?” 

There’s a pause, and Steve thinks for a moment that Tony might protest, but then he melts fully into Steve’s embrace and nuzzles in, nose buried into the crook of his neck. Some stray tears land on the skin there, and Steve presses a few kisses to the side of Tony’s head. 

A quiet “‘kay” is whispered into his neck, and Tony loosens his grip enough that Steve can gently shift him on his lap. He reaches around to grab the diaper bag, digging inside for a mat and laying it out with one hand. It’s not particularly ideal, but with Tony in such a young headspace, he wants to get him in a diaper sooner rather than later. He lays Tony down and distracts him with his Cap bear while he sets about getting him out of his jeans and into a diaper. Diaper rash hasn’t been a problem for Tony yet, but Steve still makes sure to keep up the diaper cream and the powder. 

He tickles Tony’s stomach once he’s done, smiling when that results in a string of high-pitched giggles. When the giggling and the squirming rapidly turns into another coughing fit, he winces in sympathy and scoops Tony up into his arms, rubbing a hand up and down his back. He settles the bear and the bee into Tony’s arms, more than pleased when it results in another tiny smile. Once the coughing fit dies down, he wraps Tony up in the extra blankets he’d brought and offers him the pale blue pacifier he’d slipped into his pocket that morning. The boy ends up so cocooned that he peeks out at him from the layers with wide brown eyes, the pacifier bobbing in his mouth partly obscured. Steve laughs, a surge of fondness swelling up inside his chest. Tony makes an almost _unfairly_ cute sight swaddled in blankets and stuffies. 

“Alright, let’s go see Bucky for some cream that’ll help with your chest, then we’ll get you somewhere more comfortable, huh?”

Tony nods absently, reaching out from under the blankets to grab onto Steve’s fingers. That seems to keep him occupied for the elevator ride, and he’s still toying with his fingers when they enter the floor. He can hear Bruce puttering about in the kitchen as they wait by the entryway, no doubt in an effort to keep away from the living space for the time being. Bucky stands up from the couch and approaches them, a tub of cream in his hand. 

“Hey darlin’,” he coos.

Tony lifts his gaze from where he’s still entranced by Steve’s fingers, and recognition flashes in his eyes. He smiles behind his pacifier. 

“Bu-cy?”

“You got it, bud. A little birdy told me you’re not feelin’ too good, huh?” 

Steve hikes Tony up his hip a bit, gently bouncing him in his arms. “He’s got a pretty bad cough,” he confirms, “and the arc reactor is making things play up a bit more.” 

Bucky hums, running a hand down Tony’s arm — or, the outline of his arm through the blankets. “That’s no good. Stevie’ll have to make you up some of that vegetable soup he use to make.” 

“You remember that?” Steve asks, smiling. Bucky’s memory of anything pre-Hydra is a fickle thing. 

Bucky blinks, as though he’s surprised himself. “Yeah. Guess I do.” His eyes glaze over for just a moment before sharpening again, “I don’t mind lookin’ after him while you get set up, if Tony doesn’t mind either,” he adds.

Steve brushes a stray strand of hair away from Tony’s eyes, “does that sound alright to you, baby?” 

He hesitates, eyeing Bucky for a moment, before nodding and tucking his face back into Steve’s neck. Steve drops a kiss to his blanket-covered head. 

“That’d be good, Buck,” he confirms. 

The sun has fully set by the time they arrive at Tony’s floor. Bucky settles down with Tony on the couch, who still resembles a blanket bundle, and keeps him distracted from his frequent coughing fits with dramatic stories featuring Wall-E and his bear. It takes some coaxing, but Steve manages to get him taking some liquid Tylenol, immediately offering him some warm milk and honey to wash down the taste. He crouches down in front of Tony and carefully applies some of the cream to the area surrounding the arc reactor, unfathomably thankful that his actions don’t stop the flow of giggles pouring from Tony’s mouth as he observes Bucky. He doesn’t seem to be following the actual story, but he _does_ love the sound effects, and Bucky’s metal arm. Steve can’t help but take the opportunity to give Tony’s stomach another tickle, smiling when his giggles escalate into bright laughter. He squirms right into Bucky, who steadies him with an arm around his waist. 

“Alright. Now I just gotta get my baby’s temperature, then we can cuddle up and watch a movie, how about that?” 

Tony nods vigorously, taking a sip of his milk. He’s not particularly verbal at the moment, but he does seem happier now despite his coughing, and that’s all Steve can ask for. Another bout of laughter as he leaves to find a thermometer has Steve thinking that the Tickle Monster probably struck again. A smile tugs at his lips. He hates that Tony was in so much distress during his drop, and he knows they’ll have to talk about it once he’s big again, but if he’s being honest with himself, looking after his baby is exactly what he needed today. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some more steve pov, yay! ft. sick baby tony and some arc reactor angst but hey, he gets the comfort he deserves <3


End file.
